


The First Cut

by BoxWineConfessions



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Bottom Yuri Plisetsky, M/M, Sex Toys, Slice of Life, Slow Burn, Spanking, Switching, Top Yuri, adult anxieties, adulting is hard fic, divorce fic, frustrated masturbation, like aging parents, not having babies yet, quarter life crisis fic, retirement fic, second love fic, sloppy blowjob
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-15
Updated: 2017-07-28
Packaged: 2018-12-02 07:42:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 27,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11504808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BoxWineConfessions/pseuds/BoxWineConfessions
Summary: People made divorce seem like this long drawn out and ugly process, but it really wasn’t. He bought the town home for Isabella as a gift, and so it was hers. The flat down town would go to him, as it was closer to the rink. They paid off her medical school loans last fall, so that was done too. He had a few cars, which she unanimously agreed were his to keep, so long as she could keep her Corvette. She changed her vanity plate from Dr. Leroy to Dr. Yang. He saw it parked out front of the courthouse.For JJ style week, combination of "Fave pairing" and "free day".





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Blownwish](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blownwish/gifts), [machinewithoutfeelings](https://archiveofourown.org/users/machinewithoutfeelings/gifts).



> dedicated to @machinewithoutfeelings and @blownwish who taught me the finer nuances of Pliroy.

_I would have given you all of my heart_  
_but there's someone who's torn it apart_  
_and she's taking almost all that I've got_  
_but if you want, I'll try to love again_  
_baby I'll try to love again but I know_  
  
_The first cut is the deepest._

Coming back to Moscow was like coming back to the house from a long absence: vacation, competing, temporary jobs stateside doing training camps for wealthy brats, or ice shows. Except, now Yuri felt that feeling every fucking day. The vaguely lost and disoriented feeling started when he pulled his keys out of the lock and shuffled inside and didn’t cease.

The fridge opened on the other side in Almaty, so Yuri was constantly yanking on the other end. He threw his silverware into the middle drawer, but now he had his silverware divider stored it in the top drawer. He walked into the living room in a sleepy daze looking for the bathroom, as that how it was in Almaty.

Despite all of this, things are beginning to resemble something like normal after eleven long and strange months.

Yuri used to complain that he had to wake up at the ass crack of dawn for practice. Now, he wakes up before the ass crack of dawn. Hair and makeup at 4:30, sound check at 5:00, and on air for promos by 7:00. Yuri does a daily cooking segment on a morning show viewed only by little old ladies, housewives on barbiturates, and people trapped in doctor’s office waiting rooms.

There was talk of Yuri being promoted to anchor soon; his segment was popular. He didn’t know whether to scream with joy or frustration. Broadcast was different from the shows he did online leading up to his new gig in Moscow. He couldn’t scream, “fuck” whenever he wanted. He couldn’t drink wine spritzer between shots, and oh yeah somewhere between his first YouTube video and his network debut he lost his sexy husband costar in the divorce.

But, being on air meant he got to cook, which meant he got to fill in the gaps between ice shows. This, in turn meant he didn’t go fucking crazy. He got to tell losers who didn’t know any better how to cook better. That was nice.

Yuri got off the air and out of his mic by 11:00, which meant being with grandpa by 11:30. He usually cooked lunch, or cleaned, or chatted with his nurse or occupational therapist depending on who was at the house.

Grandpa had always been _old_ but in recent years, he’d gotten _really old_. It sucked.

All of this of course, meant he felt dead by about 6:30 PM. His new life drained him in a way that skating never did. Yuri barely has the energy to cook the kinds of meals which he touts on television, but it’s good that he feels dead tired at the end of the day.

The last thing Yuri ever wanted to be was a 28 year old retired figure skater and divorcee, but here he is. He’s lost, and confused, and uncertain. Fuck the fridge with the handle on the wrong side and the silverware drawer in the wrong place, and the bathroom on the wrong end of the hall. He was fine, and everything was going to be fine.

For example, here Yuri has a double showerhead. He can boil himself alive from both sides at once, slink into his silk robe, and eat ice cream for dinner. No one will ever know.

Yuri is extracting a particularly large hunk of chocolate out of the carton when there’s a knock on the door. “What the fuck?” He murmurs under his breath. The only people that know this address are Otabek (strictly for mailing divorce documents) baldass, fatass, and Grandpa. Grandpa hasn’t driven in years.

Yuri puts on his best resting bitch face and goes to the door, because if these assholes did an unannounced transcontinental pop in, he’s going to lose it.

Yuri opens the door to be met with a sight that makes his blood boil, and his mouth go dry.

“Hey, I just moved in,” his accent is so awful. “I’m new to the city, and I want to make friends.” He’s so concentrated on not botching his already botched Russian that he hasn’t really _looked_ at him and noticed that it’s him, Yuri Plisetsky, the guy that stole every chance at greatness out from under him.

Yuri’s blood runs cold as he remembers all the ignored texts, calls, and Instagram DMS that he’s gotten over the past month.

“Oh,” his jaw goes slack for a moment, and then his expression melts into a grin. “Princess. You live here? What a coincidence.”

* * *

JJ was doing just fine. He didn’t give himself to be upset. His divorce hearing ended at 2:00 PM, and he was on the red eye flight to Moscow at 6:00. People made divorce seem like this long drawn out and ugly process, but it really wasn’t.

First of all, he and Isabella were sure. The rest was easy. He bought the town home for Isabella as a gift, and so it was hers. The flat down town would go to him, as it was closer to the rink. They paid off her medical school loans last fall, so that was done too. He had a few cars, which she unanimously agreed were his to keep, so long as she could keep her Corvette.

She changed her vanity plate from Dr. Leroy to Dr. Yang. He saw it parked out front of the courthouse.

JJ was confident in his decision to move to Russia for volunteer work. Granted, he didn’t know the language well, he knew one person who wouldn’t return his calls, and he kind of missed his family a lot. However, he _needed_ a fresh start.

Immediately, he decided to make friends. After sleeping off the jetlag for a day, he went to the store for butter, flour, eggs, and all the things that one needs to make cookies. Like it or not, making friends was transactional. He needs cookies to make friends. He returned to the sparse apartment, and realized that he did not yet own mixing bowls, baking pans, or even measuring cups. So, he walked to the nearest bakery, and he bought three dozen cookies.

Introducing himself to the newlyweds next-door, the widow down the hall, and the university student upstairs eased the tightness in his chest. He could make friends here. No one said anything about his accent or his pronunciation.

Then, he knocked, and Yuri Plisetsky opened the door. Great! He had several potential friends, and one real friend.

* * *

“Are you fucking kidding me?” All Yuri really wanted to do was eat ice cream, jerk of, and fall asleep. Jean Jackass Leroy is hugging him, and slapping his back, and saying with a rumble in his chest, “It’s good to see you.”

“Yeah, sure.” Yuri gruffs. It’s not like he passionately hates Jean at this point. It’s just that the firm hand clasped over his shoulder reminds him of Otabek catching the garter at Leroy’s wedding. It reminds him of Otabek getting fitted for his best man’s tux. It reminds him of Jean doing the same for Otabek at their wedding.

It makes him remember fucking group vacations where Yuri would spend entire cruises retching, unable to hold down even Dramamine. It reminds him of hiking excursions where he and Isabella would show up woefully over dressed and miserable by mid-hike. It reminded him of the four of them getting drunk together in hot tubs and rented cabanas. He remembered it all being so fucking normal.

They’d talk about mortgages, and next season like their days weren’t numbered. They’d talk about fertility treatments. No, really _they_ , Isabella and JJ would go on and on about the fucking fertility treatments. They did that for _years_ until Yuri drunk on daiquiris in the Bahamas shouted at Isabella, “Just fucking use Otabek’s sperm, no one will notice the goddamn difference.”

Then they never brought it up again.

At any rate, he wasn’t exactly eager to be reminded of that just yet. It was a past life that didn’t yet feel like it was properly buried in the past. Especially when he gets confused opening the goddamn refrigerator.

“Have some,” he opens a white cardboard box. Through wax paper, Yuri can see cookies. “I’m trying to make friends.”

Fuck. He can’t even say anything shitty to that, because it’s fucking working.

“From the bakery by the station.”

God, that’s his fucking favorite place in the neighborhood. He went every day until the proprietor said it was showing.

“I have salted caramel. You always liked that flavor right?” Then, he smiles at Yuri. At that moment, pushing him out because he wants to eat ice cream and jerk off sounds almost as pathetic as Jean Jacques Leroy himself.

Yuri pushes the door open and makes way for the other man. “Come in,” he says with a defeated sigh. “I have ice cream and chardonnay.”

* * *

Being with Yuri is nice. He speaks English, and he buys good wine. Even better, Yuri doesn’t ask how he is.

It’s always such a loaded question. If he’s fine, people are surprised that he’s over it so quickly. Like they expect him to keep feeling guilty for a predetermined period of time. If he says he’s not holding up, they feel awkward and uncertain of what to do next.

Plisetsky just skips all of that and acts like it’s perfectly normal for two divorced and retired athletes to eat ice cream, cookies, and chardonnay for dinner.

“Why the fuck are you here in Russia?” Yuri’s got the carton of ice cream balanced on his pale blue silk robe. It’s short, and rides up high on his thighs.

It’s difficult for Jean, who came out four months ago, filed divorce papers three months ago, and finalized everything four days ago. It’s difficult for him to concentrate on what his friend is saying when he wears a robe like that.

“I’m volunteering at an orphanage.”

Yuri sticks his tongue out at him as if he’s gagging.

 “Well, it’s hard to get an adoption to go through if you know.” Yuri knows, but he says it anyway. “Your marriage is done. I couldn’t wait anymore. I needed to do something.”

“Damn,” Yuri washes down his ice cream with a large gulp of wine.

Jean steals the ice cream carton from his lap.

“Didn’t wait for the fucking ink to dry huh?” He continues talking, and doesn’t give him any space to try to defend his behavior. Yuri simply accepts it, ribs him, and moves on. “I fucking get it though. I had to fly back to Almaty for my hearing. It fucking sucked.”

Yuri doesn’t say anything else after that. He just keeps shoveling in cookies and ice cream and refilling his wine as needed. The silence is deafening, and Jean doesn’t know what to say. It was like getting everything finished in time, and getting to Moscow was the only thing on his mind. Now that he’s here, he can’t think of a single other thing to talk about.

“Can we put on the television or something?”

“Yeah,” Yuri says reaching for the remote. “I get to pick though,” and he clicks through the channels far too quickly for Jean to see what is on the screen. “I forgot normal people talk to each other when they’re together,” and it’s implied that he’s talking about Otabek.

“So you’re a TV star now?” Jean asks. It’s neat, how Yuri finally found comfort in the spotlight. It’s exciting to see his friend grow and change in retirement. “I didn’t think you had it in you, always swearing and scowling always. The show looks good though, I put clips on sometimes to try to see what I can understand in Russian.”

Yuri scoffs. “You use my show to practice Russian?”

“Of course I do.” It isn’t a big deal. “So shouldn’t you be having something better for dinner than ice cream in a carton Sweetness?” Jean elbows him softly.

Yuri elbows him back, hard. “Nothing pairs better with 80 euro chardonnay than store brand ice cream, you uncultured swine.”

Jean isn't one to mistrust an expert. So, Jean pours them both more wine, and empties the bottle.

* * *

Yuri usually nurses the same bottle for days until it tastes like vinegar and he has to throw out a quarter bottle of expensive wine. Some fucking foodie he was. Tonight, they just kept fucking pouring for each other, and then words fall out of his mouth.

“I’m just sort of surprised you’re here. As soon as I heard, I thought you’d be on Beka-“ his voice falters. Not that familiar anymore. “Otabek’s dick.”

Jean shoots him a quizzical look. Then, he laughs a deep rattling belly laugh that threatens to shake him off my couch.

“Oh sweetheart, Beka isn’t just _like_ a brother to me. As far as I’m concerned we are brothers. He knows too much.”

Yuri doesn’t understand. Don’t you want someone who knows all your dirt and still wants to stay anyway? Then again, Otabek was that person for him for a long ass time. They got married, and now?

“Otabek encouraged me to come here when I told him I wanted to do an extended volunteer trip. He even found this complex for me and translated.

Yuri chokes on a gulp of wine. What a fucking asshole, still fucking him over after all of this time!

“Anyway, I’m kind of glad I have a friend here. Thanks.”

* * *

Yuri didn’t want to. Like he really didn’t want to, but he tried this new recipe and ate until he was stuffed, and he still had so many left over. He couldn’t leave them. He was doing a shitty ice show in Sendai with baldass and fatass over the weekend, since they were going to do shows until they fucking died apparently.

Plus you never freeze Pirozhky.

So, he swallows his pride and goes to knock on JJ’s door. “Fucking eat these, I’m going out of town tomorrow.” Yuri jams a container into his hand and turns to go.

“Hey,” and he can’t see, but he can feel his stupid face melt into a smile. He feels it tickle the back of his nape where his hair is pulled into a bun. “You don’t have to go. We can hang.”

Yuri has to pack, and that includes getting his costume, and his gear. It means leaving everything out for the cat sitter including making up Puma’s medication pack for the week. Old fucker.

“Just for a little bit. I have shit to do.”

“Thank you for thinking of me Sweetheart.” Jean closes and locks the door behind him.

“Clearly someone should be.” Yuri says flatly. Just looking at the apartment confirmed what he already knew. Jean was one of those boys that went straight from their mother to a girlfriend, who assumed the mother role when she became a wife.

There was nothing in the living room save for a giant television and a game console. There was no sofa, no chair, no coffee table. There was no dining room table in the small dining area off the kitchen.

Yuri follows him into the kitchen. Jean leans up against the kitchen island, peels back the lid on the container, and takes a priozhky. “How are you doing. You’re never there when I come-a-calling. I always knock on your door to see if you wanna work out.”

“My show starts at seven, my segment airs at ten. Hair and makeup at five.” Dumbass.

“Evenings too,” JJ unwraps it and takes a bite. “Wow,” he closes his eyes and chews slowly, savoring the food. “This is really good. You should cook professionally sweetie.”

Yuri’s eyes roll so far back into his head that he can see his skull.

“No, but in the evening too,” JJ continues. “You’re never here. I don’t think you’re avoiding me? You wouldn’t have come here if you were.”

“I usually eat dinner with my grandpa. If I’m here, it’s because he’s sleeping. Usually that means I just come home and pass out.”

“Weekends then. We should work out together.”

Yuri doesn’t say anything. He knows that by simply being here he’s silently agreed to not only weekend workouts with Leroy, but a thousand other social engagements. Whatever. This sad, non-Russian speaking loser clearly needs the human interaction.

“Saturday then?”

“I’m going out of town.”

Jean’s entire body deflates. All of him, and it’s strange to see such a large man try to make himself look so small. “Hey,” his face lights up. “You should let me house sit for you. Your cats likes me.”

“My cats like anyone that isn’t me,” Yuri huffs. “Plus I’m already paying a cat sitter.” Yuri adds quickly. “You just want to use my sofa apparently.

“And cable,” JJ adds.

Yuri thinks about it for a moment. God, he’s so fucking pathetic. Like beyond pathetic. Next level pathetic. But, he knows the sitter doesn’t stay for very long. They could use some company while he’s gone. “You have to let the cat sitter in to give Puma her meds. She’s on like four things because she’s older than my grandpa in cat years.” He takes the spare apartment key off of his Fendi fur keychain. “Don’t sleep in my fucking bed. No matter what kind of sad ass air mattress you have in your back room.”

“I have a mattress,” JJ huffs. “A king size because-“

“It’s on the floor then probably. No air mattress,” Yuri jeers.

“Maybe.”

“Yeah,” Yuri rolls his eyes. “And if my house smells like fucking cum when I get back I’m going to kill you. No hooking up or jerking off in my house.”

JJ nods while he talks, doesn’t even poke back at him. He pockets the key, and says nothing more other than, “Thank you so much Yuri.” Followed by, “can I take you to the airport? I have a car here.”

“You have a car but no furniture?” Yuri rolls his eyes. Yeah, every assumption was correct. This loser needed someone to look out for him.

* * *

Yuri might’ve owned a couch, a dining room table, and dishes. He might’ve had a pantry full of food, and a professional job, and a family here, but it was clear that he was a mess.

Yuri seemed like the kind of person who only prioritized the long term goals, and never really understood that each large task was comprised of a thousand and one little tasks that had to be stacked on top of one another.

Jean supposes that is what happens when you debut on top and stay there for the better part of a decade. Jean supposes, that seeing the thousand and one little tasks is what makes you have panic attacks that wake you up in the middle of the night. They make your skin itch, and it makes your intrusive thoughts flow freely.

Jean soon tires of the luxuries of the sofa and daytime cable, and quickly set about completing a handful of Yuri’s thousand little tasks. He takes out the trash, which was left overflowing. He empties the fridge of all expired food too.

There was a mountain of dirty clothes in the bathroom hamper, and so Jean takes them to the cleaner on his way out to get groceries. He doesn’t know what kind of foods that Yuri likes to make when he isn’t working. On his show, he makes a lot of Asian fusion foods, or traditional Russian foods with modern twists. Jean just buys what he normally buys, but in double: protein bars, protein powder, frozen fruit to blend with the protein powder, greens, and lots of lean meat. He debates for a moment whether to stock both of their fridges, or just one, as Jean was house sitting.

He crams everything into Yuri’s fridge.

Yuri has three cats.

He knows this based on the excessive notes Yuri left for the sitter. Puma is more gray than tan. She has a single snaggle tooth that pokes out of her lower jaw. Her tongue flops out of her mouth, and her eyes are clouded with cataracts.

Jean watches the sitter tussle with her, trying to hide medication in her wet food.

 He sees her more than the others, who hide in Yuri’s room unless it’s feeding time. She rubs up against his legs, but skirts away when he leans down to pet her. She uses his stomach as a springboard when she wants to sit on the back of the sofa.

Saturday afternoon, she pads out across the carpet, hops up onto his stomach, kneads the fabric of his shirt, circles round on his chest, and lays down.

She smells like death and baby powder. Yuri has a bottle of some kind of product which the sitter has to rub onto her fur every day, as per Yuri’s instructions.

Jean balances her on his lap while reading on his phone. Maybe he’ll take a day trip to St. Petersburg. Maybe Yuri could come and show him around. Absent mindedly, he rakes his hands through the cat’s fur. She purrs against his chest.

“You like me huh? Don’t tell your mom, he’ll be furious.”

The cat responds by stretching and sinking her claws into his shirt. Jean snaps a photo and sends it to Yuri.

* * *

In a high end teppanyaki bar in Sendai, Yuri throws his phone across the bar.

“What’s wrong Yurio?” Yuuri asks absent mindedly. He’s nursing a whiskey and a club soda, because he’s smart enough to remember that they have a matinee show tomorrow.

“Everyone I love is going fucking senile and losing it,” Yuri groans.

“What’s wrong with Nikolai?” Victor gasps as if he is personally affected. It took Yuri years to understand what irked him most about Victor. His brand of empathy is so intense, that it’s difficult to regard it as sincere, even when he _is_ sincere.

“Not gramps, the cat,” Yuri melts into the booth. “Fucking old ass Puma.”

“I guess she is getting up there,” Yuuri notes. “She’s how old?”

“Fucking fifteen,” Yuri sighs. “I can’t even pretend to not have a favorite. Chainsaw and Princess are nice, but like…Fucking Puma,” and he drains his own drink just thinking about her grizzled ugly adorable face.

* * *

It’s Tuesday, which means that yesterday’s episode of the Bachelorette is airing here tonight. That also means that Jean needs a place to watch it. He still hasn’t gotten his cable hooked up yet. Every time he calls, the automated service confuses him. He doesn’t know what button to push, and usually the operator talks so fast, he can’t stammer out what he needs. So, he just hangs up.

He knocks on his Princess’ door, but of course he doesn’t come empty handed. He has takeout from the Mandarin restaurant down the street.

Yuri opens the door with a huff. “What do you want?” His hair is disheveled, and he has bags underneath his eyes. His flight back to Moscow was late. He did his show Monday morning, and then stayed at his grandfather’s place that night.

He asked him to check on the cats, and give Puma her medication, so of course Jean did.

“It’s Bachelorette night.”

“Didn’t you just fucking make me watch that?”

“Last week Princess.”

Yuri purses his lips together and furrows his brow. He clearly wants to lay into him, but is too tired to do so. So, he just stares at him with a heavy, almost angry but mostly confused expression.

“I brought dinner.” He waves several grease stained bags at Yuri.

Yuri blinks at him a few times.

“Yeah, sure fine. But after this, you’re banned from here until you get your own furniture and your own cable, you fucking piece of shit mess.” Of course, Yuri says this while he’s grabbing the bag from Jean’s hand and tearing open a fortune cookie wrapper with his teeth.

* * *

 

Of course, Jean doesn’t fucking listen. The days come and fucking go, and it’s Tuesday again and he’s banging on the door. “I hope you like vegan food, I ordered from Khachapuri,” and the worst part is, Yuri can hear the fucking smile in his voice through the door. It’s toothy, and beaming, and he’s got those little fucking dimples showing that make him want to punch him in the face.

Yuri’s chain lock was undone. He does the chain lock, then opens the door. He stares at Jean Jackass through the sliver in the door. “What color is your sofa Jean?”

“Corduroy,” he chirps.

“That’s not a fucking color dumbass,” then he closes the door. “I’m not setting foot over there until it’s habitable.”

Through the door he can hear a muffled, “I got cable though. They have an online website. You can come over and watch.”

“We’ll sit on your fucking floor?” Yuri opens the door back up. The fact of the matter is, that drivel is addictive. He needs to know who makes it to the final five, but he sure as shit isn’t watching it on his own. “Why the fuck would I want to do that?”

So Jean, after years of intrepid self-discovery, self-actualization, and rigorous goal setting, finally has a man in his bed. No less than a month after finalizing his divorce no less. Pretty impressive, even if you are The King. Even better, it’s Yuri Plisetsky.

Granted, Yuri’s currently sitting miles away from him on the other side of the bed, practically stuffed between the end table and the headboard shoving mushroom dumplings into his mouth and ragging on his bedspread, “what the fuck? Did your mother buy this for you from Bed Bath and Beyond?”

“Yes,” Jean admits. “Bed Bath and Beyond has a lot of good products.”

“God you’re fucking hopeless,” Yuri says with a full mouth. “What? Why the fuck did she give him the first rose?” He growls at the screen.

* * *

 

Yuri usually only has to worry about him on Tuesdays and weekends. It’s currently Thursday, and Yuri had been paid $4000 USD to endorse a new line of highlighters on his lifestyle blog. This meant a full 800 word post, 3-4 photos, and a tutorial video. It was due to their brand manager by tonight, which meant that Yuri hadn’t started any of it until after he had lunch and a long meandering game of backgammon with Grandpa.

Which meant that when he started, he had six hours until his deadline when he started, and he started three hours ago.

Yuri’s got this handled though. He types faster than he’s ever typed before, and the words flow freely. “Ever wish you could put an Instagram filter on your skin? This highlighter provides a radiant shimmer which-”

Yuri’s thoughts are interrupted by a god damn racket outside. Of course, Jean decides to resurface now when he’s jamming out words like his life depends upon it.

From the other side of the door, there’s the soft strumming of acoustic guitar. Jean’s voice booms like a fucking freight train, “if you want to sing out, sing out. If you want to be free, be free.”

Yuri gets up from the table, stomps over to the door, and opens it wide. “Listen here asshole,” and he’s not at all surprised when he sees Jean strumming his acoustic right outside his door.

“And if you want to live high, live high,” and Jean that interrupting asshole wriggles his eyebrows at him. “And if you want to live low, live low,” he dips at his knees. He looks like such a fucking asshole.

“I’m up against a fucking deadline,” Yuri fumes. “I need you to stop.”

Jean stops strumming. His eyebrows raise, and his mouth pulls into a smile. It’s off-putting, considering Yuri’s life is going to suck until this blog post is done. “Princess,” he stifles a yawn and stretches. “That makeup looks good on you. You should wear it like that on air.”

“Yeah fucking right.” Yuri had standards and practices explain to him before his segment even aired how to be just gay enough on air, but not too gay to be off-putting. He’s pretty sure his fuchsia shade of “Flat out Fabulous” is too fucking queer for that. “Whatever, I need a multimedia review of this highlighter by the end of the night, and you’re not fucking helping.”

“Multimedia?” JJ perks up. “Like pictures?”

“Words, picture, video. You know _multiple_ forms of media.”

“Can I help?”

Yuri wants to take that stupid guitar and bash it over his head. Who the fuck jus fucks off for a year in another country at an unpaid job. Then, shows up and wants to just _help_ out?

Yuri lets him in. “Yeah, sure fine.” The fact of the matter is, his production quality has declined on his self-produced videos since the divorce. People _love_ pointing that out on Twitter. Whatever, Otabek was always better at editing than he was. He should’ve been. He only took six million courses on it.

Yuri gestures to the small mountain of collapsed lights and assorted photography equipment. “Set that up for me.”

* * *

 

“Look, just _act_ like you’re whisking something. We’re going for realism here remember?” Jean pleads. It’s amazing and frustrating, how Yuri’s made it so far in the industry without really understanding what it is that he’s doing.

“I don’t fucking whisk up cake batter in full makeup and Gucci,” Yuri responds with a huff.

“Haven’t you ever heard of staying on brand Plisetsky?” Jean refocuses the camera, and takes a few shots of Yuri whisking. “Lick the whisk.”

“There’s literally nothing more than flour and water in here, fucker.”

“Just because you would’ve snapped a few selfies and uploaded them doesn’t mean you get to do that if I’m directing.” Jean moves around the other side of the kitchen island and snaps a photo of Yuri looking positively enraged over his shoulder. It’s wonderful.

“You’re not directing. You’re assisting.”

* * *

Yuri’s post gets an okay from the brand ambassador later that night. He posts it Friday morning. Immediately the comments roll in on his blog and on Twitter.

“Plisetsky must be seeing someone again. His photos and video editing have gotten a lot better.”

“He’s dating again omg. Who is it?”

“New sexy husband costar?”

Then, fucking Jean Jackass retweets it. @JJLeroy!15, “Of course! He sees me, every day. #neighbors”

Yuri would’ve chucked his phone, but grandpa is nodding off in his chair. So Yuri turns off his phone, and puts it in the cookie jar in the kitchen. What a fucking dumbass asshole.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Yuri has to wake up at 4:00 on weekday mornings for his segment. So, the weekends are dedicated to _finally_ catching up on sleep. He still rolls into Grandpa’s in the afternoon, because the nurse comes in the morning and makes breakfast. The weekend nurse is nice. She’s going to night school for her full RN. She makes extra pancakes, and always tells him to eat some when he shows up. They’re lumpy and from a box mix, but Yuri always makes an effort to pick at them.

So, it’s a real pain in the ass when Yuri is woken up at 6:00 by Jean in warmup gear. “Rise and shine Princess.” His tone is too familiar, and his smile is too genuine for this fucking early. “Let’s get physical.” Then Yuri’s all but dry heaving in the foyer, because seriously. Who talks like that?

Never mind the fact that Jean actually looks pretty damn good in warm up gear, a tight gray pullover with a high collar and tight Nike pants that show his thick thighs, his toned ass, and they’re so tight, they even show his fucking goddamn calves.

“We goin’ for a run?”

“Five Kay, baby.”

Yuri changes into his workout gear in a daze. He pulls the hood all the way up on his plum colored hoodie. His hair is a disaster and he desperately needs a blow out. Maybe he’ll see if his stylist can squeeze him in after this, and then grab brunch at that new place nearby.

Yuri’s only been able to do circuit training the past few days. As much as he hates to admit it, he needs this. His body protests at every movement, when his feet hit the pavement, and when he throws his arms forward.  That alone is proof of how he’s letting himself slide.

In the crisp morning cold, and the pale light of the morning, Yuri can see his breath puff in front of him. If anyone had ever told him that he’d ever be running through Gorky park with Jean-Jaques Leroy at six AM, and NOT hating it, well he’d kick them in the back.

But, that’s the thing. For the longest time, he knew exactly how things were going to go. Train. Train. Train more. Train even more. Win. His sneakers smack against the pavement. Win more. He’s already out of breath, and they haven’t even been running that long. Win. Keep winning.

Now what?

Wait for grandpa’s condition to get worse? Hold his breath and pray that it stays the same? Check Instagram, wonder what Otabek is doing, and then tell himself that it doesn’t fucking matter? Because it really doesn’t. Ever since he moved back home, Yuri feels like a one hundred pound boulder was unchained from his neck. They made the right decision.

But it doesn’t erase the fact that they failed. Yuri hates failure.

The whole thing makes him run harder, makes him push himself, makes him surpass Jean. That’s right. That’s how it’s always been. Jean’s spent his whole career looking up at him on the podium. He’s spent his whole life being passed up.

So why doesn’t that make him feel good anymore?

Jean’s strides are long, even, and reliable. He passes him up effortlessly.

Yuri presses forward, determined to beat Jean for no reason other than he wants to.

Jean has always had better stamina. Yuri falls behind once more.

Yuri summons anger, wrath, shame, all at once. He breaks away from Jean’s easy stride and presses onward. He maintains the lead for a few hundred meters. Then, like always whenever things are going well, it all goes to shit.

Yuri rolls his ankle and falls onto the pavement in a slew of curses.

* * *

“It looks like just a sprain Sweetness,” Jean tries to comfort Yuri. It will still take an afternoon of ice and heating pad, but it isn’t anything serious. Even if they were still competing, it wouldn’t mean more than a day or so of lost practice.

“Says you.” Yuri grumbles into his shoulder. “Can’t you just call a cab? Or, let me die out in the gutter? This is embarrassing.”

“No way, this is such a much better work out,” he says with a grin. “You doing okay?” He’s holding Yuri in a piggy back hold. His hands are looped around his neck. He can feel Yuri’s breath against his neck, and he shouldn’t be thinking that it feels nice.

His friend is injured after all.

“Didn’t you listen? Leave me to die.”

The going is slow. Yuri might be feather light for an adult man, but his frame is long and lanky. Jean has to readjust his grasp on his legs several time throughout the return trip home.

Yuri doesn’t say much on the return journey home, and so it’s up to Jean to maintain the conversation. Anything to take his mind off of the warmth against his back and the hot breath that creeps down his collar. “What do you want for breakfast? I could make breakfast? Fried eggs and toast, you have stuff for that right? I haven’t been to the store for myself since you got back from Sendai.”

“That was like three weeks ago, and no I don’t want that.”

“Can you make French toast?”

“No.”

“You’re making me French toast.”

“Okay.”

“It’s a really nice day, we should sit on the balcony,” Jean adds. Yuri seems to coup himself up in the house if he isn’t working. It’s really not good for a man.

“Yeah sure fine, whatever,” Yuri agrees.

“Or we could-“

Yuri rests his forehead against his back. It’s sweet. “Please for the love of fuck, stop taking. Just stop talking Jean.”

* * *

Jean’s got him spread across two dining room chairs: ass in one, and foot propped up in the other with an ice pack. Despite being absolutely clueless in the kitchen, he won’t allow Yuri to do anything hands on. Yuri has no choice to bark orders from his perch, and  kind of thirty year old man can’t make French toast?

It’s pathetic.

“Now, you take it out of the egg wash, and put it into the pan. Don’t fuck with it til I tell you to. Okay?”

“Okay.” Then Yuri can hear the pop and the sizzle of the bread being added to the pan.

“Jean, there’s been something I’ve been meaning to ask you,” he says finally when the oil has stopped popping. “Who the fuck can afford to just take off and work an unpaid job for an undetermined amount of time? And live in a luxury apartment while doing it?”

According to Instagram, Leo’s sister did the PeaceCorps. Leo’s sister lived in a dirt hut for two years, and claimed to love every minute of it.

“Well, you know. I made a lot of good investments when I was competing. I still have the clothing line. I joined a few ice shows and,-“

“You’re getting alimony aren’t you?” Jean might’ve been the business man, but _Dr. Yang_ was freaking loaded. “Hey, stop fucking with it. I _told_ you not to flip until I said so.”

Jean retracts the spatula from the pan and rests it on his spoon rest, some heavy copper overpriced thing that he bought online shopping and liked too much to return. “You mean you aren’t?”

Because it’s no secret that Altin’s are loaded.

  “None of it is Otabek’s,” Yuri growls. “Literally none. He still gets an allowance.” The subject makes him uncomfortable even though he’s the one that brought up the initial question of alimony.

Luckily, Jean does the work of changing the subject for him. “Do you have any fruit? Fruit would go well with this.”

“Yeah, there’s all sorts of shit in the fridge. Just pick whatever.” Yuri looks up at the ceiling. There’s cobwebs up in the corners. Maybe he can get Jean to knock them down with a broom after they eat. He seems to like tidying up here even though his own place is barely habitable. “Do you like it here?”

He doesn’t even know why he says it. Maybe having Jean around is nicer. Maybe it’s alright to talk to someone that isn’t his producer, his agent, or grandpa. But it’s not like he particularly _likes_ having a tall, muscular man carry him home. Fuck, he wouldn’t have even rolled his ankle if Jean hadn’t forced him out.

It’s not like he particularly wants a clueless-in-the-kitchen man having free access to his Le Creuset pans and spilling powdered sugar down his shirt. It’s not like he feels a little catch in his chest when he barks orders at Jean and Jean complies, asking him if his knife work is uniform enough. It’s just nice that someone is actually willing to learn.

Maybe, just maybe, he hopes that Jean feels the same way. Not the first choice, or the second choice, or even the top 100 choices, but kind of sort of, almost if you didn’t tell anyone, acceptable.

“Of course Princess!” Jean roams over to the stove. “I think this can be flipped.”

Yuri nods.

“My kids are fantastic. Sophia got put into advanced reading classes. Elle is going on new medication.” A lot of Jean’s kids are sick. It doesn’t seem to bother him. “It should help with her fatigue. We’ll see,” he shrugs.  

Yuri nods and tries to stay in the present, pretend that the statement doesn’t trigger an internal list of grandpa’s doctors appointments for the week. He needs to call and get a refill on his blood pressure meds too.

Jean moves back to the counter to chop the fruit. “The locals leave a lot to be desired though.” Jean cranes his neck to look at him. He flashes a toothy grin at him, and a wink that makes him want to retch.  “Always asking for favors like watching their cat, but then not letting me watch television to return the favor.”

Just like that, nice acceptable moment gone.

* * *

Otabek is led down a long hallway lined with art Nuevo prints. Mucha, Klimt, Gaudi. His feet shuffle against the carpet as he follows a woman who calls herself a nurse, but has on Prada ready to wear and four inch heels.

Then again, nothing about this place indicates that it’s a medical facility. There is a Starbucks on the first floor, and a valet for the medical center, and large elegant fountains everywhere he turns.

The nurse wraps on the door twice, and opens it for him. “Dr. Yang, your 11:30.”

Otabek sinks into the seat across from her desk. He feels impossibly small and unimportant as she scrutinizes him.

He’s barely sunk into the chair opposite her when she asks, “why did you even make this appointment? I’m a plastic surgeon. Not an orthopedist.” Right down to business as usual.

“I wanted a second opinion.” The fact of the matter is, he feels lost. Yuri would normally handle this kind of thing for him.

“You’re in an oncology center Otabek. I perform breast reconstruction. Did you not realize you were the only man in the waiting room?”

Otabek opens his mouth to speak, but she keeps talking.  “My opinion is to get the operation. Meniscus surgery is minor. Jean’s had two.”

“Oh,” immediately, having a familiar person’s opinion removes the burden completely. In an instant she gives him permission, and in an instant he knows that everything will be alright. “Thank you.”

Then, a spark of an idea enters the back of his mind. He entertains it for a split second, remembering the French restaurant he went past on his way in. “Would you like to get lunch? It’s been a long time. We could catch up.”

* * *

On Sunday, Yuri beats Jean to the punch. He’s banging on _his_ door at 6:00 AM, “Hey asshole, wake up.”

Jean answers the door shirtless with a tooth brush sticking out of his mouth. Yuri can see his big fucking ugly ass sleeve tattoo that he got done after Pyenong Chang in every stupid and painful detail. He grins when he sees Yuri’s face and it makes him want to fucking die.

“feeling better Princess?”

“Yeah. Put a shirt on.” Hide that nasty chest tattoo too.  “We’re doing yoga in the park, and then we’re going to buy you a sofa.”

“Church too? Maybe brunch?”

“Brunch yes, church no.”

* * *

“I went to church the other day Gramps.”

Nikolai doesn’t say anything right away. He’s content to watch the birds at the feeder as he contemplates what to say next. Yuri takes the moment to stuff the blanket back around his waist. He doesn’t like the new wheelchair. It’s too big, and not for a moment does he entertain the idea that gramps was getting smaller.

“Really?”

“Yeah, I prayed and got holy water spritzed on my hands. Took communion and everything.”

“That’s good Yurochka,” he pauses, and Yuri waits for the rest. “Why did you go?”

“My friend wanted me to go with him.”

“I’m glad you have a friend again.”

* * *

 

“Never have I ever,” Yuri interrupts himself and takes a swig from the glass. He winces, coughs, and sputters, and how the fuck does Jean do that? Sip on his fucking scotch on the rocks like its water? On his first drink, he waited until his ice cubes were melty. On his second, he powered through. Now? Well, the liquor is doing its job, but he’s still suffering.

“This is decade old scotch. Shouldn’t you be telling me to savor it?”

“Shut up. Who the fuck moves to Russia and gets scotch imported? That’s the stupidest fucking thing I’ve ever heard of.” Yuri smooths his fingers across the smooth taupe suede of Jean’s new sofa.  He looks out at the room, and also admires the bamboo blinds, the glass coffee table, and the actual fucking TV stand.

Jean gave Yuri his platinum card last weekend. Jean would argue that he went wild. Yuri would say that every item in the room was a necessity, and realistically, he should’ve charged a decorating fee.

“Anyway, never have I ever had sex with a woman.”

Jean puts a finger down. Playing with him was stupid. He lists things that either _everyone_ should have done by the time they’re his age, _or_ things that are so obscure that no, of course he’s never done it before.

Jean doesn’t skip a beat. “Never have I ever had sex with a man.”

“Wait, what?” Yuri puts his finger down leaving just his middle, playfully wagging at Jean.

Jean sighs and closes his eyes for a moment, like he’s sick of having this conversation. “Nope.”

“I just _assumed_ you left your wife cause you got some cock, and realized you liked it more.” Yuri has seen the texts he was sending Otabek leading up to all of this.

 

  _I think I’m gay._

_You mean bi?_

_No. Gay. Really gay._

Jean shakes his head no.

“You bet it all on an _assumption?_ ”

“Look,” Jean rises, goes to the sink, and pours him a glass of mineral water into a long stemmed crystal glass. Of course, these were also Yuri’s selection. Yuri watches him shuffle in sock feet across the carpet. He hands Yuri the glass. “It wasn’t an assumption. I had a decade to figure out that it wasn’t for me. I’m really at peace with it.”

“That even makes it worse,” Yuri accepts the glass. Instead of drinking it as Jean had intended, he dumps it into his tumbler of scotch. He’s not fucking wasting this shit.

“Please Yuri, that isn’t cheap,” he begs.

Yuri waves his hand dismissively. The couch dips against Jean’s weight. “You should be out getting a new fucking dick every night if you’re so sure.”

“I don’t want to sleep around. I want to fall in love,” and the way Jean says it, he can’t make fun of it. Maybe he shouldn’t make fun of it, considering he spent over a decade with someone he claimed to _still_ love more than anything else, but tells him with a smile that it just wasn’t right. Jean keeps talking, “you’re not seeing anyone.” There’s no malice in Jean’s voice, just quiet observation.

“How fucking keen Leroy. The clubs aren’t exactly bouncing at 8:00 PM. Not to mention my dumbass neighbor is always hanging around.” Yuri adds quickly, “I’ve fucked tons of dudes since separating.” This of course, is a bold face lie. Yuri tried to take one guy home about three months after he moved back home. He was nice enough. Had a nice car. Smelled good. Nice body. Everything about it should’ve worked.

Except Yuri ended up crying on him like a little bitch and asking him to leave.

Yuri drains his drink. “Let’s talk about anything else. Never have I ever acted in a late night infomercial.”

Jean flashes his hand and finally puts down his final finger.

“Drink motherfucker.”

* * *

Yuri passes out on the couch.  He didn't know that someone could make snoring sound cute, but Yuri does it. Jean pulls one of the blankets off of his bed and puts it over Yuri. If Yuri were conscious, he’d flip out about his lack of blankets, and take the platinum card again. Maybe he’ll just tell Yuri directly. He needs more blankets if he’s going to stay over.

* * *

“Well, what do you think of it?” Isabella cuts a minute morsel of food off of her plate and puts it into her mouth. “I don’t think it’s good for him to be alone like that. There’s no reason for it, and it’s not like we’re on bad terms. He called me and asked me to look up what gate his connecting flight was at.”

“He’s living in the same apartment complex as Yuri.”

“Right, they seem to be spending a lot of time together.” She bats her long eyelashes at him, and each blink asks a silent question. _How do you feel about that?_ So Otabek responds to her in kind. His stare is steady and unwavering.

She raises her glass to her lips next. The crimson red lipstick leaves a smeared print on the rim of the glass. “Ah. Another Altin scheme.”

He likes that. The way she uses words, twists them, makes them bend to her will and belong to her completely.

“I felt as if it was the least I could do for him.” For which _him_ he does not specify. He is uncertain. The fact of the matter is, their personalities were a natural fit. Where Otabek saw things from a bird’s eye view, hundreds of meters from above, the both of them lived in small and intricate minutia. It made his head hurt.

* * *

“You should come volunteer with me sometime. On the weekend maybe, when you aren’t doing an ice show.” It isn’t healthy for Yuri to just work all of the time. How will he know who he is and what he wants from this next, exciting part of his life if he’s preoccupied with work, and caregiving? And, spending the rest of his time decaying in the department baking bread was nice, but it didn’t make a man feel whole.

“Yeah fucking right. My biological clock isn’t ticking like yours Leroy. I’m fine.”

“It’s fun. Today I played soccer. Then, I helped some of the older kids who go to school do their homework.”

“Great.” Yuri grunts. He’s kneading bread on his counter, and there is flour everywhere. Across the counters, on the floor, across his apron, up into the fine little hairs of his eyebrows. It’s really, really cute.

“I mean I had to do some not so fun things too. The health department nurse came, and we had to give some of the little ones shots. I had to hold them.”

“Were you not listening to the part where I said my biological clock was fine?” Yuri slaps the dough, and it makes the most satisfying _smack_ against his skin and the counter. “Like kids are okay, but if they aren’t attached to Yuuko, or Baldass and Fatass, I really don’t care.”

“Did Otabek not want kids?” It’s an inappropriate question to ask, but Jean is legitimately curious.

“Oh, I’m fucking sure there will be an heir to the Altin fortune eventually,” Yuri seethes. “As soon as his dad tells him to pop one out.”

“Hey, please don’t be upset Sweetheart.”

“I’m not upset.” Yuri raises the dough and smacks it down again sending flour everywhere. It’s clear that Yuri is very upset. Yuri’s actions are rushed, and uncoordinated. He flours the baking pan, and slams the sifter down onto the counter. “It’s just that Otabek was always so fucking good at living for everyone other than himself and for me. Do you think the people of Kazakhstan give a shit about what he’s doing after Beijing?”

“Sweetheart,” Jean does a quick scan of the area. Yuri’s knife block is on the other side of the sink, meaning it’s out of reach for Yuri.

“Do you think his fucking father actually gives a shit about all that Otabek does for him?” Yuri splays his long fingers out on the flour dusted counter. Jean’s movements are automatic, as if he’s floating across the kitchen tiles, and then he’s wrapping his arms around Yuri from behind.

“It’s okay, Yuri.”

Yuri doesn’t push him away. Jean would swear that he _leans_ into the touch. Jean rubs his arm until he stops shaking. He lets Jean hold him. The sound of the kitchen clock ticking down every long and tense second are deafening.  The only indicator Yuri gives that he might have been crying was a loud, undignified snorting noise as he tried to catch his running nose without a tissue.

* * *

“Natalia read me the paper today.”

“She reads you the paper every day,” Yuri says looking up from his tablet. He crosses and uncrosses his eyes, and fuck if he has to get glasses he’s going to be so fucking shitty. It’s just the memo that his producer sent him. That’s what’s got his vision cloudy. Rebranding initiative for the segment. Fusion food still, but the network wants to see comfort food for winter. What the fuck ever. His day one segment was potato dumplings with an Asian twist, Loquats pureed into the dumpling dough, how much more comforting does it get?

“This was the society page.”

“Great.” Yuri loves talking with gramps. He really, truly does. It’s just that, he doesn’t have the energy for a long meandering conversation right now. He’s doing an ice show in St. Petersburg this weekend, which means he’s got to finalize his ingredient list for the week ahead of time.

“You were volunteering at the orphanage with your friend?”

“What?” Yuri lets the tablet drop from his hand and onto the table. Yuri only agreed to get Jean to shut the fuck up about it. He painted this fantastic sob story. The food wasn’t very good, and didn’t taste like a home cooked meal at all.

Whatever.

So, he begrudgingly made the fucking kids pirozhky, fried potatoes, sweets, and all sorts of shit that you aren’t supposed to feed kids.  He just skulked back in the kitchen like a potato mashing troll. Made Jean serve the little bastards and dipped out the back door when everyone sat down to eat. 

“Where’s the paper Grandpa?”

“I think it’s in the living room.”

Yuri tears himself away from the kitchen table and stomps into the living room. He tears through the paper, until he finds the society page. It’s buried between weather and movie times, because nobody gives a shit. It’s the fucking 21st century, all the good shit is printed on gossip blogs anyway and- Fuck. Yuri’s blood runs cold. Fuck. This could be all over the internet too.

Yuri’s eyes scan the page. He crumples the paper with each word that he reads.

_A sister at St. Ann’s Children’s Home reported that last week regular celebrity volunteer Jean-Jacques Leroy was joined by Moscow native Yuri Plisetsky. Both athletes performed impressive routines in PyeongChang in 2018 and Bejing in 2022. One must wonder what these once bitter rivals and recent divorcees are doing in one another’s company._

Yuri throws the paper down and drags a heavy hand across his face. He’s going to have to kill a fucking nun.

“I don’t see what’s wrong with the article Yurochka,” Grandpa says when he comes back. “It’s a good article. Makes you look good.”

The whole thing stresses Yuri out. So, he moves to the kitchen and starts emptying the dish washer. If the feeling doesn’t fade, he’ll have to bake some fucking cake for grandpa’s nurse or something.

He hasn’t been this fucking upset since Jean hugged him in the kitchen. Jean and his big stupid arms, and his nice smelling cologne, and the fact that he seems to fucking like Yuri and not want anything from him. It’s the fucking worst.

“It’s just that he’s been tagging shit on Instagram when we’re together. Then this. If it’s online, it’s going to just fuel the rumors.”

“Rumors? What rumors?” Grandpa sounds worried, which makes him feel petty.

“It’s nothing. People just think that we’re dating. People on the internet. People that don’t actually matter.” He makes sure to explain himself completely, as to not worry grandpa even more.

“Your friend Jean? From your wedding?” Grandpa asks.

“Yeah,” Yuri grumbles.

“Well,” Nikolai says slowly. “I do wish you’d see someone again. It’s not good to be alone.”

Yuri sighs and reaches for the fucking flour, and the sugar, and the vanilla, and prays to god that grandpa still has eggs in the fridge. If he doesn’t bake Natalie the best fucking crumb cake in the world, he’s going to start thinking about how grandma died twenty-five fucking years ago.

* * *

“Well, you could quash the rumors easily.” Jean says. He touches his elbows to his knees, and leans back on the sit up bench. Yuri repeats the action on the accompanying bench, but their movements are out of synch. When Yuri goes down, Jean goes up. Every time he stills for a moment to balance out their actions, Yuri speeds up or slows down making them fall out of synch once again. “Let me take you out Princess.”

“Listen here Jean-Jackass.” Yuri leans back on the bench and lets his long hair fan out around his head on the bench. His eyes are crossed, and he looks pissy.

Jean leans back on the bench too. None of this should be a shock to Yuri. He hasn’t dated since he was seventeen, but he can safely assume that it’s easy to interpret what grows between them as less than platonic.

Then again, he’s never been great with interpreting emotions, and neither has Yuri.

“I don’t really like you. Never have. Stop fucking looking at me.” So Yuri starts doing sit ups faster than he had before to avoid Jean’s gaze. “But I’d be really fucking shitty if my best-“ Yuri stops talking.

  
“Your best what?”

“If you. If we. If we didn’t like each other and-If my best-” Yuri’s incoherent half statements are interrupted by him gasping for air as he moved on the bench. “I don’t have the fucking energy for someone who just came out. Sounds exhausting.”

* * *

“Surely you’re not just here for a misguided consultation,” Isabella notes. She checks her watch. The band is a thin linked band of diamonds around her wrist. It dangles limply around her arm as if it could slip off at a moment’s notice.

“Business too. We want to expand our presence in Toronto. If you had some time though, I’d love it if you showed me around.”

“Otabek, you lived here for two years.” She says with a furrowed brow. Furiously, she types out a lengthy email on her phone.

“I’m hitting on you Isabella.” His voice is dry and unamused. Surely, she must understand his intentions.

“Seriously?” She tears her gaze away from her phone and locks eyes with him across the table.

Otabek doesn’t say anything in response right away. “Of course I’m serious,” and as undignified as it is, he cannot hide the hurt in his voice.

“Sorry, I just… Didn’t know, women-“ she stutters over her words. That alone is worth it. He truly believes that Dr. Isabella Yang has never misspoken once in her life. “Yeah, sure. We,” she interrupts herself. “I have a membership to the country club. We could play if you have time?”

Otabek nods.

“I went to medical school with someone who specialized in orthopedic surgery. He’s at Toronto general now. I can give you his number?”

Otabek nods again.

* * *

Yuri goes to bed that night too fucking keyed up to function. Going to St. Petersburg always stresses him the fuck out. Traveling in general always stresses him the fuck out. Leaving grandpa for so long always makes him nervous. He tells himself that at the very least, this wasn’t an international flight. He could get back quickly if needed.

However, St. Petersburg meant confronting a lifetime of memories. Memories of people that aren’t there anymore, and people that have lingered there too long. It means tea with Milla asking if it’s okay if she breastfeeds her brat at the table.  It means after the ice show, getting roped into whatever weird shit Georgi’s into this week. Crystal skulls, or tarot, or gluten free diets it really varies quite a bit, and he doesn’t have energy for it.

Worse still, he’s got three fucking cats, and no one is in bed with him.

And he’d really like someone in bed with him. Preferably someone with big stupid romance novel cover worthy muscles. Someone with big ugly tattoos, and big, beautiful blue eyes that shone like crystal clear water.

God, it’s so fucking stupid. It’s stupid, and it’s scary, and he doesn’t want to want Jean as much as he does.

Yuri rolls from his stomach, to his side, to his back. He twists the sheets up with the blankets while he tosses and turns. It’s too hot in the apartment, despite the fact that the seasons are changing, and he’s got the windows open.

His cock twitches in his underwear, and that’s fucking it. Yuri peels his underwear down his legs and kicks them off into some far away corner of the bed. Yuri grips his dick into his hand, and hisses as he squeezes himself at the base.

He’s waited for so fucking long to want another human. The question remained, why did it have to be him? Why did it have to be the only other person in this world that he has a long and complicated emotional history with? Why couldn’t he just get a crush on the mailman or the baker or something like that?

Yuri pumps his cock quickly, twisting on downward strokes. He screws his eyes shut, bites his lip, and thinks of all sorts of really stupid things.

Jean on a step ladder changing his lightbulb.

Jean passed out in his armchair, his mouth open and Puma sprawled out on his chest.

Jean taking his shirt off midway through their run.

Jean’s skin feeling hot whenever they touch. Like when he carried him home, or when they hugged. His skin was always impossibly warm, and it made Yuri feel like he was going to burn alive under his touch. Yuri rubs his thumb frantically over the head of his cock. Who the fuck jerks off to a fucking sad hug. God he was fucking pathetic.

Despite the fact that it’s the most pathetic thing he’s ever thought of while jerking off, and that includes everything he jerked off to his first summer in Hasetsu. Yuri tries to think of other things. Things that will get him there. He thinks about how fucking big his cock has got to be. How he would probably be the neediest, most fucking vocal bottom ever if Yuri ever fucked into that tight virgin ass. How he would be Jean’s first, and damn that was hot. Before he knows it he’s coming all over his hand and crying out, “Jean.”

 


	3. Chapter 3

“You should do macaroni and cheese, with breadcrumbs. That’s my favorite comfort food,” Jean says. He’s sitting at the table in Yuri’s apartment. Yuri’s at the head of the table, _his seat_ while Jean’s at the seat to Yuri’s immediate right _his seat._ Jean’s got his laptop with far too many tabs open. He’s checking investment portfolio, and making a list of things to ask his dad about when they talk on the phone. He still doesn’t _get_ a lot of this.

“I don’t know,” Yuri sighs and deflates into the ocean of recipe cards he has scattered around them both on the table. “If I do that, I can’t do cheese spaetzel, which means I’m still down a show.” Yuri picks up a fist full of recipe cards. The ones in his hands are old and yellowed. The blue ink is faded on the card, and many of them look splotched, as if they’d been wet in the past.

“Your grandpa’s?”

“Yeah, grandma and grandpa’s. Grandma worked for a baker, so I’m told. I was too young to really know her.”

Jean nods.

Yuri takes another fistful of cards into his hand and flips through them. This set looks newer; the cards are whiter. The recipes are written in Japanese. “These are from Mari. Mari Katsuki,” he says. Jean can remember meeting her once or twice. Her smile was offset by a long sad cigarette drooping from the corner of her mouth, and this explains the cigarette burn in the middle of one of the cards. Yuri blows his hair out of his face. “Does your mom have like, a good poutine recipe or something?”

“Poutine isn’t innovative,” Jean notes. On the surface, it doesn’t fit well with the rest of what Yuri does, and Yuri has a difficult time staying on brand. “What kind of fusion would you do?”

“Whatever I want,” Yuri huffs. “Innovative. What did you have for dinner tonight? Those fucking frozen burritos in your freezer?”

“Those are organic!” Jean defends them, because they’re tasty. “Actually, I had chicken and vegetables. I used those seasoning packets you bought me.”

“Oh, congratulations Jean. Please, plan the rest of this week’s dishes.”

“What did you have for dinner?” Jean asks. Yuri seems to always be cooking something, but he can count on one hand the number of times that he’s actually seen him eat something other than a small mouthful of junkfood: cookies, a handful of chips, squid jerky from japan that stinks up the place.

“Poached salmon, picatta sauce, and snow peas.”

“Babe, you didn’t bring me any,” it makes his stomach growl just thinking about it.  

Yuri rolls his eyes immediately, but the blush creeps over his face slowly, until he’s as red as a cherry tomato. It creeps down his chest, Jean can see it blossom down the neck line of his shirt. Jean lets his gaze linger on Yuri for as long as possible. He’s washed off his makeup, his hair is unkempt and frizzy, his pajamas are a cobbled together mix of things: an old t-shirt, a Burberry pullover, Team Russia warm up pants. It’s a far cry from the peach Fendi blouse he had on this morning, and that’s why he loves the cobbled together mixture of clothing so much.

He doesn’t understand Yuri’s hesitance. He’s ready to feel again, ready to live and to do as he’s never been able to before. He doesn’t understand, because he’s always known Yuri to be this brash person who charges in first and deals with the consequences later.

Except…

One day Otabek messaged him:

_I think there is a problem_

Then the next day:

_Yuri asked for a separation._

Jean responded:

_That’s unexpected._

Otabek responded:

_Not really._

Maybe it’s best if he tries his hardest to put his own desires aside, even if Yuri gets under his skin, rakes across his back and sends chills down his spine with so much as a sour glance.

“I see you over there on Twitter. Why don’t you make yourself useful?”

“What do you need Kitten?” Jean asks.

“You know,” Yuri insists. “Do the thing.” Yuri twists around on the kitchen chair trying to pop his back.

“Start bringing me leftovers.”

“Yeah, sure fine,” Yuri rubs at his neck. “Please JJ?”

Jean can’t say no to the way he says those two syllables. Ever. Jean gets up from his spot, and pushes Yuri’s long blonde hair over his shoulder. Immediately, he digs his thumbs into his tense shoulder blades.

Yuri lets out a low moan. “Ah, fuck.”

Jean, a former master of self-denial and self-deception, owns the effect that it has on him completely. He wants Yuri. He’s the first thing that he thinks about when he wakes up, and the last thing that he thinks of at night. Even at work, when he’s hushing crying babies, and filing incident reports, he thinks about what Yuri is doing at that time. He wonders what he’s wearing, and how his hair is falling, and if he’s thinking of him too. “You’re going to get a little grandma hump Princess.”

“No I’m not,” Yuri protests.

“Yes, you are. Bad posture,” and he takes Yuri’s shoulders, and rolls them back, straightening his spine. “Adipose tissue forms here to cradle the spine and-“

“God, I was about to say that you’re good at this.”

Jean remedies this, by grabbing him at the base of the neck and rubbing the stiff muscles there too.

“Oh fuck. You actually are good at this. Jeh-Jeh-fuck.”

Against his better judgement, Jean orders him, “stand up.”

Yuri complies, and folds his arms across his chest. Jean picks him up as if he weighs nothing at all. He gently bounces him against his chest until he can hear his back pop.

He likes the way his mouth is close to the crook of Yuri’s neck. He loves the way that he can feel his warmth, and the tickle of his hair against his face. Jean didn’t want to let go. Yuri lingers a little bit too long before finally pulling away. “Thanks,” he says tucking a strand of hair behind his ears.

Yuri smells like Chanel and he should find it strange that he finds such comfort in the fact that he and Bella wear the same perfume. Except, they were always more alike than they were different. It feels good to have something familiar.

“You want some of your sleepy time tea?” Yuri asks while walking to the stove. His steps rattle the glass containers on the counters, and he finds it funny how such a lithe and athletic person could stomp around so gracelessly outside the rink or the studio.

“Yeah,” he says as Yuri fills the kettle and puts it onto the stove.

Yuri leans against the counter with his back to the cabinets and his palms splayed flat against the counter top. Jean mirrors the position, and they’re so close they could just brush hips, but so far apart.

* * *

The whole thing Jean of sitting at the dinner table long after dinner was finished when he was a kid. His dad said he couldn’t leave the table until he ate his vegetables. He can remember the big clock in the kitchen. It had a big, angry looking red rooster on the face. He can remember the hand slowly but surely sliding closer together as the hours slid by.

Mama finally came downstairs after what felt like hours, her hair done up in curlers. From memory, he practically hears her open the refrigerator. He can catch the clink of Pyrex knocking against each other. She pours him a glass of milk, and set a large slice of butter tart in front of him, which everyone else had gotten for desert after dinner. “Eat JJ, I think you’ve been punished enough,” she says as she scrapes his peas and carrots into the trash.

“Dad doesn’t want me having that many calories.”

“It’s fine JJ,” she says with a frustrated sigh.

* * *

“You should make butter tart,” Jean blurts out.

Yuri’s busy fishing a teabag out of one of his many glass containers.

“The fuck is that? Like gooey butter cake? I had that once. Skate America maybe?”

“No, like,” Jean fishes his phone out of his pocket and pulls up the first recipe that pops up.

Yuri snatches the phone, his eyes go wide and slack. “This would be good with toasted pecans. Oh my god. What about a savory one? Like um…” Yuri rotates his wrist in front of him a few times, “Fuckin bacon….fucking braised pork belly, with….Fuck, JJ.”  

“Oh,” he didn’t expect Yuri to just run with it like that. “Yeah.”

 “Thank you for saving my ass Jean,” and just like that, Yuri does what he’d wanted to do all night. Yuri does what he wanted to do since he carried Yuri home on his back. Since they watched the Bachelor in bed together. Yuri does what he'd dreamed of doing, abstractly of course, ever since he was young and frustrated at training camp surrounded by boys that he couldn't stop thinking about. Yuri cups his face, and presses their lips together for a split second.

If it weren’t for the soft tingle against his lips, he wouldn’t have known he’d kissed him at all.

Then, he’s raiding the fridge like nothing happened.

“Oh my god, I have to have more butter than this.”

* * *

Yuri _almost_ did it when they went shopping for new winter coats, but he lost his nerve in the mall carpark. He _almost_ did it when they went to the new wine bar, but like, Yuri got side tracked asking the sommelier all sorts of questions about the glasses they ordered and then the mood was gone. Then, he _almost_ did it when he dropped off some clean clothes for Jean at St. Ann’s because someone barfed on him.

After he changed. Of course.

They were alone in the garden, nothing but a statue of the blessed virgin to judge them. Yuri had his hands fisted in his shirt, but then there were nuns, and kids, and fuck it he tried.

So, maybe instead of waiting for the perfect fucking moment, he just kind of goes for the opposite. Do it, and hope that he gets away with it without it being a big deal. Because like, they slipped into this weird peaceful domesticity without even trying.

Cooking, laundry, kissing. No. Big. Deal.

* * *

“Come again Babe?” Because a quick peck was _not_ JJ style. Not at all. It wasn’t Princess Yuri style either. Of that much, Jean was certain. So, he approaches Yuri from behind, wraps his arms around him, and buries his face in his neck. “Babe, I missed it the first time.”

Which causes Yuri to bolt upright and smash his head into the refrigerator, “Fuck!”

“Ah, Yuri I’m so sorry-“

Yuri spins around on the tile floor in sock feet. His face is red, and there are big fat burgeoning tears in the corners of his eyes, presumably from hitting the top of the refrigerator. He looks positively murderous, and then, before Jean can fully understand what’s going on, Yuri is mashing their mouths together again.  Their teeth clink together, and Yuri all but jams his tongue down his throat.

It’s a relief really, how awful Yuri is at this, because he knows that he’s making the kiss too wet. He doesn’t quite know what to do with his hands. It’s okay that he hasn’t kissed anyone that wasn’t Isabella in well over a decade, because it seems that Yuri hasn’t really either.

“Finally,” he can’t help but doing nothing other than smiling at him, wide and toothy. He’s wanted Yuri for awhile now, and now he’s finally _openly_ wanted back. It feels good. “But um, I need another one. Third time’s the charm right?”

“Don’t say stupid things.” Yuri sulks. “Just-hmph.“

Jean tangles one hand into Yuri’s hair. With the other hand, he tilts his chin upward, and watches the way that his fingertips press lightly into the soft skin of Yuri’s jaw. Then, he presses his lips to Yuri’s own. Jean traces the line of Yuri’s lips. They’re soft like velvet, and part like fine sheets of silk against his tongue. Their tongues gently meet in the middle, pushing against one another experimentally.

The tension evaporates from Yuri’s body far more quickly _this_ way than any massage ever could. He’ll have to keep that in mind.  

“Jean,” Yuri whispers in a hushed voice when they part. Yuri’s eyes are half lidded, and he presses their lips back together once more. Yuri’s hands are cold, as they press against his neck and scratch lightly at his undercut.  “Happy now?”

* * *

Yuri knows the answer to the question before he even finishes spitting out the syllables.

“I mean,” Jean smiles at him, cocksure and damn near greedy. He breathes hotly into his ear, and Yuri can _feel_ Jean’s bulge in his pants pressed up against his thigh. “It was a _really_ good idea. Right?”

“Right,” Yuri husks. “Really good.” Yuri sees this as the perfect opportunity to get what he wants. They’re already keyed up, and He can play it off like he’s throwing Jean a bone while resolving _years_ of sexual frustration for Jean. Simultaneously, he can say thank you without _actually_ saying the two syllables out loud.

He _still_ can’t stand the fucking thought of being indebted to Jean. He still isn’t comfortable of the idea of both of them intrinsically doing something for the other. That’s what couples did.

Yuri closes the refrigerator door, and sinks to his knees. His bare feet press up against cold stainless steel. He tugs at the waistband of Jean’s pants. He wets his lips. He closes his eyes, and takes him into his mouth as if he’d done this to Jean a thousand times.

Yuri laps at the tip a few times just to hear the poor bastard keen. Jean smells musky, like someone that goes to the gym twice a day, and uses Molton Brown shower gel, the kind that comes in a big beer bottle brown kind of glass bottle, and still fucking stinks of _man_ in the best kind of way.

“How long have you fucking wanted this Jean?”

“Since you fed me ice cream and moscato for dinner.”

“Good answer.” Yuri takes him into his mouth. As much as he can anyway. He’s fucking huge. Yuri makes the conscious effort to relax his throat muscles and swallow him down slowly. He _almost_ gets to the base when his ears start to ring and his nose starts to run. Two nasty as fuck signs that the dick is going to be really fucking good.

Jean fucking sobs, “sweetness,” while tangling a hand back into his hair.

Oh fuck yeah.

* * *

 “A few ground rules.” Isabella meets him at the bar at the Ritz Carlton Toronto. She’s wearing the kind of little black dress that you don’t associate with OR scrubs. It makes Otabek feel under dressed despite the fact that he’s wearing a small fortune in Kiton right now.

She drains her martini, and Otabek watches her throat bob as she swallows. “No divorce talk. No ex-husband talk.”

He nods and swallows thickly. It’s all that he can do. It’s like she snatches all the air out of the room and feeds it back to him breath by breath, keeping him on the cusp of whatever it is that she wants next.

“And, you don’t get to drive my car.”

“That’s fine,” Otabek says finally, offering her his arm and guiding them toward the valet. The Porsche is parked out front waiting for them. He grabs the keys, and hands the valet a generous tip. “I thought maybe you’d like to drive mine.”

Her eyes go wide. “Is that the new Carrera? Jean was going to get one but-“ She stops herself.

“Dr. Yang,” He cocks a single brow at her. He holds the keys out. She places an expectant palm underneath. He grabs them once again, and she furrows her brow in frustration. His mouth curls into an asymmetrical smirk. He’s still got it somewhere, buried deep down inside. He can do this.  ‘You said no ex-husband talk,” and then he shoves the keys into her hand.

* * *

Just like divorce didn’t fix all of his problems, kissing Yuri and subsequently getting blown by him in the kitchen didn’t solve all of his problems. He’s still _really_ frustrated. He came too soon, and boneless and disoriented could manage little more than a sloppy hand job for Yuri. He’s still confused by what his portfolio is doing. He’s still very confused by street signs, and metro signs. He tried to take the train to avoid morning traffic, but ended up in the city center instead of at the orphanage.

Work is draining too. Theodore is still quite sick. Sister Margret subsequently caught whatever it was that Theodore has, and so they’ve been a bit short staffed. Marie’s been having night terrors, and so he’s been staying later to put her to bed. Meaning that Jean’s felt compelled to stay late the past few days.

To the point that he comes home one night well past midnight with an envelope taped to the door. In sloppy scrawl, a note reads “FUCKING CALL ME. ARE YOU DEAD? And there’s a thin silver key shoved into the corner of the envelope, presumably to Yuri’s apartment. To keep, not to give back when Yuri’s in town.

The next morning, Jean watches Yuri ruin a beautiful segment on Korean style fried chicken by cutting himself with a chef’s knife as he demonstrated how to properly cut a whole fryer on live television. His segment was cut short, but only _after_ Yuri had to be bleeped and the _and_ the anchor tossed to commercial.  All of this, of course, happens while Jean himself picks over a bowl of oatmeal and frozen fruit at his apartment. Although he knows that the error is small and probably inconsequential in Yuri’s career, he can’t shake the feeling that it’s symptomatic of something much bigger for Yuri. Jean looks at the small silver key that he added to his key ring…Something needs to be done about all of this.

So, he asks Sister Ivanov if he can work a half day today, and then make up the rest of his hours later in the week. He feels guilty while doing it. Volunteer work still _had_ to be done professionally.

“Of course Jean, you deserve it after last week, she assures him. So, Jean ducks out of St. Ann’s and books it to the station as quickly as possible.

He catches Yuri on his way out of the studio. He’s got his hair swept up in a messy bun, Chanel glasses on, venti soy latte with an extra shot in hand (Jean knows his Starbucks order by heart at this point). His index finger is covered in a white plaster.

“Sweetness!”

“Ah, Jean what the fuck?” He doesn’t even have the energy to sound angry for showing up at his place of work unannounced. This is why an intervention is really, truly needed.

“This is a kidnapping! I’m abducting you from a difficult day!”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

“You wrote me a note asking if I was dead! Which means I _know_ that you want to see me. Call your grandpa’s nurse. Make sure he’s okay, and then when you get the greenlight. Kidnapping!”

* * *

“Hurry up,” she demands, but then distracts him further from the task at hand, unzipping her dress by pressing their mouths together once again. She kisses him fiercely, and he’d expect nothing less. She pops the buttons on his shirt, and he has deep red lipstick stains on his collar. He didn’t know that happened in real life; he only thought it occurred in the movies. “Otabek, please.”

“Your dress,” and he does his best to coax the zipper down tooth by tooth.

“I don’t care about the dress. Otabek, I haven’t had sex in almost two years,” and she grinds her palm against his crotch to accentuate her point.

Otabek acts on instinct. There’s a ripping sound, and Otabek’s left holding a large swath of silky black fabric, which he discards in favor of Isabella’s body. Otabek’s instinct is to sink to his knees, his instinct is to serve. Mid-kneel, he realizes this may not be the best position. Instead, he bends at the knee, picks her up, and tosses him over his shoulder. “Where is your bedroom?”

* * *

Yuri hasn’t cut himself cooking in years. What’s next, falling while doing a triple or a double? Maybe he shouldn’t think about it, or risk dooming himself to failure in Sochi this weekend. The fact of the matter is, he’s beyond fucking fucked.

His initial plan for the show today had been a chicken and rice onepot, because who the fuck doesn’t like that, but the producer nixed it last night because the mid day show was doing something similar, and only told him about it in post production yesterday. That meant he had to pull a fucking chicken recipe out of his ass.

Oh yeah, and he just blew his neighbor, rival, ex-husband’s best friend, fuck his best friend, in the kitchen. Life goes on even after Jean kisses him so good that his knees knock together.

The worst part is life goes on after Jean sloppily jerks him off afterwards. Life goes on, and Jean stuffs his monster cock back into his pants, kisses him quickly on the temple, and asks his mom for her recipe. Yuri gets his Kitchen Aid. They both go to work the next day.

Life goes on, and Yuri doesn’t have time to overanalyze it. He doesn’t have the opportunity to self-sabotage by avoiding Jean and crashing and Grandpa’s because Jean gets busy with work and does it for him. Which means that he actually _misses_ the bastard when they can’t sit in the kitchen and just exist.  

So when Jean shows up and says he’s kidnapping him, Yuri simply gives in. There’s no fight left in him, because there’s only want left. Fuck it. Fucking fuck it. He’s fucking around with Jean, and it’s gonna end really badly, and then he’s gonna end up lonely again. The worst part, he decides, as Jean holds the passenger’s side door open for him, is that Yuri didn’t even realize that he was lonely until jean started clinging to him.

“At least let me go home and put on something designer. I can’t bear the thought of my first post-divorce date occurring in leggings.”

Jean acts like he doesn’t even hear him, and just fucking grins at him with a big stupid grin. “So, you agree that this is a date.”

“Yeah,” Yuri huffs.

“Really?”

“Yes, fucking really. I don’t think friends ‘kidnap’ each other mid-day. I don’t think friends furnish friends’ apartments. I don’t think friends just blow each other in the kitchen. We’re fucking dating I guess.”

“You could change, but it’s a really relaxing date. Plus, look at me.”

Yuri does. He’s wearing a pair of really nice jeans that looked like they’d been painted on. He’s not sure if that’s supposed to make him feel better or worse about his shitty attire. “It’s okay,” he decides finally. “If I go home, I’m not leaving the apartment again.”

“I just thought I’d have to wear you down a little more. That’s all. I have a six point plan. Do you want to hear it?” Jean says as the stats the engine.

“Not really. I’m being subjected to it.”

“Step one, tarts.”

“By the fucking way, the reason our first one was fucked was because you took down the directions wrong. Your mom told me so.”  

“You’re talking to Mama!?” Jean’s whole body lights up. His eyes shine, and his mouth curves on each end in a smile, and he taps the steering wheel excitedly.

“Settle down Leroy. She told me to if anything got fucked up.”

“Can you believe it?” Jean shakes his arm at a stop sign. “I’m dating someone. You’re dating someone. We’re dating each other.”

Yuri rubs his hand across his face. In the passenger’s side mirror he can see the way his features are pulled and distorted. There’s the meaty red of the inside of his eyelid, the white of his eyes, the way that his skin over his nose smashes against the bone.

Yuri yanks on the door handle, only to find that it’s locked. So, he tugs at the lock latch, only to find that it won’t undo.

“I keep the child locks on. You know? Because of work.”

Jean shifts the car into gear, and then rests his hand against Yuri’s knee. The weight of his hand is nice.

* * *

Yuri Plisetsky deserved to be loved, even if it wasn’t by him. Even if every single one of Yuri’s fears was true, and they didn’t work out, and the house of cards they’d started building fell crashing down around them, Yuri Plisetsky deserved to be loved.

If Jean was going to get a shot, he was going to make the very most of it. The idea of falling for someone that you’d known for almost your whole life, but always kept on the peripheral, sounded so comforting. Falling for Yuri sounded like a long and deliberate process, something totally unlike getting married when you’re twenty.

Yuri is skeptical throughout, but he wouldn’t expect anything less. Yuri’s love is fierce and relentless and all consuming. He can sense it through what Yuri gives, and how Yuri pushes away.

“I made lunch.” Jean pulls two sandwiches wrapped in wax paper from his backpack.

“Did you forget? You’re not at work right now JJ,” he ribs playfully. “Or is it so lax, that you just forget when you’re actually working and when you aren’t.”

Yuri balances his latte in one hand, and the sandwich in the other. Blue light from the tank reflects onto Yuri’s skin, and makes him look like a strange, over worked and ethereal creature that could cast a spell on him at any moment, and leave him begging for mercy.

“Aquarium dates are fun,” Jean says as he unwraps his own sandwich.

“I don’t know. Peanut butter and the Ocenarium sounds like a field trip.”

The aquarium is almost completely empty today. Jean’s got them parked at a bench in the reef room. Large sharks and manta rays drift by. Brightly colored fish swim faster, and intermingle with the coral.

 “Relaxing too,” Jean says. “I’d go to the one in Toronto alone when Isabella was doing her residency. My favorite time to go was in the morning, before people started showing up, but after my morning sessions. Sometimes I’d even just bring reading for classes and stuff, and then stay until the soccer moms and field trip crowd started flowing in.”

Yuri chews in silence for awhile. Then, he takes his wax paper, balls it up, and throws it in the trash. “You bring carrot sticks too Mr. Leroy?”

“Um, there’s apples in my bag. Some protein bars.”

Yuri laughs. It’s not his usual scoff, but the small little laugh that he keeps hidden away. He joins Jean at the bench again. The seat make a strange pneumatic sound when he sits. “Does this feel weird to you?” Yuri asks as he threads his long, thin fingers into his own. “Like good, but weird?”

Even in the faint blue light, Jean can see the place on his own left hand where the skin is lighter than all the rest, the place where he wore his wedding band.

“A little bit. Yeah.” Jean admits. His stomach drops, and he can feel the blunt pressure of anxiety build in his chest. There was a certain kind of intangible shift between right now, and the other night. Regardless of whether or not anyone saw, they occupied the same space. Together. Yuri was upset about the society page piece, and the comments on his blog posts. Yet, he sat here with him. “I haven’t been on a first date in a long time.”

“You know what would feel really fucking weird?”

Jean in fact does. It’s been four days he kissed Yuri. It’s been a whole four days of thinking about it nonstop.

It’s like they both know what the other is thinking. Yuri slides closer to him on the bench. Jean wraps an arm around his middle, and pulls him close. Yuri scrambles to push stray strands of hair out of the way. Jean shoves the book bag wedged between them on the floor. Somewhere in between all of the chaos, their lips meet.

Kissing Yuri here and now is nothing like what he experienced the other day. Where they were rushed ad uncoordinated before, clinked teeth, swollen lips, and a looming deadline, now they are slow. He likes it better this way, exploratory and vulnerable.  He likes knowing that he gets to see a side of him that Yuri hasn’t exposed to many people. If Yuri has gotten around in the time since his divorce, he’s certainly not kissing them like this.

Yuri makes a soft little moan when he traces his lips with his tongue, and finally lets him deepen the kiss. Jean’s hands drift everywhere. First, he rests his hands on either side of Yuri’s hips. Then, he slides them up is lender waist. Then, he hooks his fingers into Yuri’s belt-loops. Then, greedily, he tries to palm Yuri’s ass.

Yuri cups his face with one hand, and Jean can feel the warmth from his latte wedged between them. He’d worry about tasting like peanut butter, but they both taste like peanut butter, and so that _has_ to make it okay. It’s strange, and it’s wonderful, and it’s addictive all at once.

“Wow,” Yuri says when they finally part.

“Yeah,” Jean supplies. Possibly for the first time in his life, he does not know what to say. It’s like he’s sixteen again, and he’s getting his first kiss. Except, he’s thirty-two, and he doesn’t know what to do with his hands when he can’t jam them down Yuri’s pants. “Still weird.”

“Super fucking weird,” Yuri decides after a moment.  He slides their lips together again. The kiss is chaste, and they part with a smack.

“I could get used to it though,” Jean says when their mouths part. 

“Me too.”

“Can I tell you something?” Yuri asks.  

“Anything.”

“I’m really scared.”

“Me too.” Jean says finally.

“Really?” Yuri exhales sharply from his nose in disbelief. “No way, Mr. I’m ready to fall in love.”

“Those things aren’t mutually exclusive. I can feel both.”

Yuri breaks their shared gaze and looks at the tank, as if it’s easier to have the conversation without eye contact.

Jean keeps talking at the risk of having Yuri pull away or scoff at him. “You could feel both too,” Jean says with a soft squeeze of his thin bony fingers.

* * *

“It’s alright to be afraid,” Isabella cards her hands through his hair. Her friend from medical school was able to see him, and so he’s back in Toronto again. Her makeup is perfect, but she’s wearing gray green scrubs that hide her body as she’s in-between clinic appointments today. She’s the last thing he’ll see before he goes under. Otabek knows that he’s luck to see her at all. All of this is so new. It’s less about their mutual interests in art and literature, or their dry and no nonsense approaches and more about the need and urgency which arises between two lost souls. That and fast cars.

If she has to see him like this at all, he’d much rather skip forward to the part where he was between her Egyptian cotton sheets. He’d like to be where she didn’t have to be Dr. Yang. She could be Isabella, painfully human. She could eat cookies in bed with the television on mute while he took Vicodin naps.

But he allows her to see him like this because he is afraid. She allows herself to see it.

Otabek stares at the white plastic band around his arm. It has his name, his date of birth and blood type printed on it in clean black letters alongside a barcode consisting of lines of an alternating thickness. That scares him more than the thought of going under, or the long recovery, or pain.

“Thank you,” he says and squeezes her hands.

 


	4. Chapter 4

“Hey asshole,” Yuri holds his phone at an angle and talks into the speaker. The makeup woman flits around him, slapping too much rouge onto his cheeks. He _always_ looks like a cheap whore during his segments, but she won’t fucking listen. “I found someone to take Giacometti’s spot during the show this weekend.”

“Ah, morning Yurio! That’s fantastic. Who?” Yuri can feel Victor smile into the phone. It makes him want to toss his device across hair and makeup. Except, he was going to have to find out eventually.

“I can’t disclose that information,” he says abruptly. “Just know we have enough for the full show. Okay?” He _does_ want Jean to come. He knows for a fact he hasn’t done a show in awhile. Yuri feels ambivalent about shows at best. A show means another coach bag or another piece of Fendi, but Jean _loves_ them.

But he also _really_ likes the little bubble they’re in. It’s not about being ashamed to be seen with him. They’re seen plenty by the guy at the Kebab stand, and the barista at the café, and the instructor at their spin class, and yes they’ve been doing spin class in the evenings. Have been since before they decided to make things more or less official. Jean fucking tags him in shit all of the time, so publicly it’s _kind_ of a thing, but Yuri has to approve all captions and hashtags first.

_It’s_ more of the fact that right now, no one they know really _knows_ and so for a moment, they’re free from scrutiny and unsolicited opinions.

He fucking wants him for himself for as long as possible.

* * *

 “Hey, do you still remember to skate?”

“Yeah, I still skate.” Yuri is skeptical of this response. He’s not known Jean to go to the rink, but who fucking knows what he does with his time when they aren’t together. The other day he was sending him snaps from an Armani Exchange at like 10:30 PM.

While he was asleep. Jackass.

“Fucking when?”

“I have rink time before I go to St. Ann’s 6:30-8:30 on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. I share with some homeschooled kids. You’re already gone.”

“I’m not sure if I believe that,” Yuri says in a matter of fact tone. “But anyway, clear your calendar mother Teresa.” He says chucking a printed receipt for a business class ticket to Sochi at him.

“What’s this about Princess? A weekend getaway already?” and he wriggles his eyes at him in a way that makes him reevaluate everything.

“Giacometti is out this weekend. Something about drug resistant gonorrhea. You’re in. Ice show kidnapping. No excuses.”

His whole fucking face lights up, and Yuri might want to just try to get that reaction from him as much as possible.

“Sochi is going to get some,”

“Don’t do it.”

“JJ,”

“Don’t fucking do it.”

“Style,” and of course he fucking does it, flashing his little j’s and looking like a total douche.

“We’re breaking up.”

* * *

“Are you doing okay?” At first, Jean had been hesitant to accept the call. Don’t get him wrong, he wants to get Yuri on the first plane to Toronto and introduce him to his parents. He really wants to start tagging things on Instagram #boyfriends instead of #neighbors.  He really wants to call up his two oldest friends and tell them that he’s dating again. Except. He’s not yet sure how to negotiate the four of them.  

“Yes,” Otabek responds. He’s seated on a plain black couch. There’s a pale pink throw draped across the back of the sofa that looks awfully familiar. It’s knit yarn, and where has he seen it before? “I’m already moving around without crutches.”

“That’s fantastic Beka!”

Yuri stands awkwardly in front of the coffee table, far out of line of view from Jean’s webcam. He flashes a fuchsia colored post it note in front of him. “Which of these are you checking?” He gestures to a mountain of dark red luggage, each embroidered with big gold letters, _JJ_. Then he thrusts a pen and post-it into his hand.

If they’re going to travel together, he should get Yuri some to match.

“How are you liking Moscow?”

Jean tries to scribble a response out of line of view of the camera, while simultaneously talking to Otabek.

“Um, it’s alright,” Jean responds sheepishly. But really, where did that blanket come from? It’s the kind of warm and homey thing that wouldn’t be found in the Altin estate which is clean and minimalist. “My kids are great, and I’m doing an ice show this weekend!”

Yuri rakes his flattened palm across his face in frustration. He can’t help it. He’s just _so_ excited!

“An ice show? You do tend to like those a great deal. How did you get set up with one so quickly?”  Otabek grins at him. Not a cocky half grin, not a smirk, not the hidden smile that he _used_ to keep for Yuri and Yuri alone. It’s a smile. There are hints of teeth, and the corners of his mouth turn up on edge.

In that instant, it all clicks together. That’s _his_ old couch in Toronto! That’s Isabella’s comfort blanket; she’s had it since she was little. She had to take it with them on their honeymoon.  It is the blanket that goes to oncology conferences around the world! Which means that. Oh wow!

“Are you on my sofa Beka?”

“Do you have Puma in your lap?” Otabek responds dryly. “I can hear her wheezing through the microphone.”

“Yes!” Jean responds.

“Then, yes. I’m on your,” and he says it in _that_ tone. The dry, knowing without revealing kind of tone that _only_ Otabek can wield. “Sofa.”

“Princess!” At this point Yuri’s melted into the carpet into a defeated pile near the luggage. His face is hidden in his arm, so Jean can only see his mouth twisted in agony. He’s still fucking skyping Otabek. “Beka is with Isabella. Isn’t that neat?”

* * *

Jean is a fucking Jackass.

Yuri decided this a long time ago when they first met. He should’ve never forgotten it. A tall, muscular, sweet, endearing jackass.

It’s solidified when he tells Otabek with a big stupid grin that they’re hanging out. It’s solidified when he buys a Cinnabon at the airport and demands that they share this unwieldy _thing_ that tastes like sugar, glue, and cinnamon. 

Yuri plucks the earbuds out of Jean’s ear. He’s left his laptop open and tray table up, alongside an open can of diet Coke. It’s a disaster waiting to happen when the captain turns the fasten seatbelt sign on and startles Jean awake.

Yuri puts the laptop away, and drinks the last sips of the soda. He smooths the hair away from Jean’s eyes, even though it really didn’t need bothering.

Jackass.

* * *

“Separate rooms?” Yuri shoves a plastic card into his hand, and he looks defeated. Completely and utterly broken. His entire face is pulled into a pout, and Yuri kind of likes it. Because, he looks completely broken, not because he’s cute or anything.

“Look Jean,” Yuri responds. They go up the elevator, and head down the hallway toward their adjacent rooms, the wheels of their luggage making whooshing noises behind them as they walk. “I don’t want Victor, control freak that he is going through the receipts or something figuring out we had one room. That happened before. Otabek and I ordered a double room, and he was asking all sorts of intrusive questions.”

“No way.”

“Way.” Yuri says. They stop in front of the door. “I wanna show you something.” Yuri jams the keycard into the slot, and then orders, “Stay there.”

Yuri slams closed the door to the hotel room. When he’s on the other side, he barks orders, “knock on the door.”

Jean complies.

“Oh look, it’s my boyfriend,” Yuri says in a loud and exaggerated tone. He leaves the door thrown open in invitation. “Some things are actually just that easy.” Yuri flops onto the bed, and reaches for the remote. “Bring my luggage in will you?”

* * *

A few seasons have passed since he’s shared the same rink as Yuri. Watching Yuri move makes him angry. Legitimately, chest tightening, jaw clenching, white knuckling the rail, angry, and he can count the number of times that he has felt that way; that is how sparse the feeling is. The way that Yuri moves his body shows that he still had another season in him. Given the way that he moves, another after that and who knows, maybe even another.

On the plane, Yuri openly bemoans the fact that he cannot do a Bielman anymore. Jean doesn’t understand. He hasn’t been able to do a Bielman since he was ten. He doesn’t yet know the anguish of having time take his signature move away. He can still perform the quad Sal. He has to tweak the entrance a bit, and putting it in a combination is damn near out of the question.

Bielman or no, the performance is mesmerizing.

Yuri does a medley of his past exhibition skates. From throughout the years. During _Welcome to the Madness_ , he rips his own fingerless gloves off. He comes up off of it, counters back quickly into a flawless quad as the music changes to a power rock song from his second season. Jean remembers that exhibition routine because it was an Olympic year. In Pyeongchang, Yuri took gold. He took silver. Otabek Bronze.

The music fades again, in and out through Yuri’s Krautrock phase, and his protopunk phase, all the _notable_ routines are present, save for perhaps his most famous from his late career. Yuri skated to _Still Loving You_ as his exhibition skate during his final season. At the time, it fit in with the other rock songs that Yuri liked.  Now, it seemed like a silent plea for Otabek and Otabek alone. He skated the song at two Grand Prix qualifiers and the final event, he did it at the European Championship, even when Otabek wasn’t competing. He did it at Worlds too. Even after the Olympics were done, none of them missed Worlds.

Jean’s never asked him or Otabek explicitly about it, but he knows that Yuri won gold in Almaty in 2026. He was on the podium opposite of Yuri with third. Otabek won silver in his home city, and that had to have hurt.

Yuri comes out of a combination spin and goes into a cantilever without end. It’s captivating, and frustrating, and damn, he knows that ice shows are supposed to be _fun_ and _low_ _pressure_ , but it fires something up in Jean that hasn’t been stoked in _years._

When Jean himself takes the middle of the rink for _The Theme of King JJ_ he knows that he’s going to skate the program exactly as it was choreographed all those years ago. It doesn’t matter if he touches down on half his jumps.

* * *

Jean Jackass continues to lives up to his name during the ice show. He does his SP from when he was fucking nineteen, _as if_ he were nineteen and still training like a fucking world class athlete. Yuri can still do that. He’s one season out from competing in ISU events. Jean…Has had a few years of being normal, and it almost, kind of, if you cock your head and squint just a little bit, shows.

The entrance is changed into his Sal, but he lands it thank god. If he didn’t, Yuri would leave him at the airport, and he _knows_ how shitty that sounds considering he can’t even do his signature move anymore. He flubs his other quad out of the combination, _of course_. You can’t land a quad in combination if you’re getting a handful of hours on the ice a week at maximum.

Still, there’s something completely captivating about the way that he skates. He owns the rink in a way that he never did when he was active in competition. Jean would probably vehemently disagree, but Yuri sees the truth.

With the pressure gone, Jean is himself. Jean himself is a this weird, in-between of full on JJ style and this raw and exposed person who isn’t sure if he can still land the jump, but tries anyway, unafraid of failure.

Why the fuck couldn’t he do that when they were both competing, and not some washed up scrubs at an ice show? It pisses Yuri off. It makes him want to hop back over the rail when he’s done and launch into some long forgotten Free Skate while cursing Jean’s name to filth.

* * *

Isabella plucks the IPad from his hands, sets it onto the nightstand, and crawls across the expanse of her bed joining Otabek. She straddles his lap, and loops her arms around his neck. “You can’t heal if you’re working all the time.” Their lips meet for a moment, soft and exploratory. There are times when Otabek still cannot believe that Isabella allows him so close. Isaballa is as near perfect as a human can be, and yet she allows Otbek to see all of her. He sees the woman who is at the top of her field with her own practice. He sees the woman who drives fast cars in Louis Vuitton heels. He sees the woman who forgets her reading glasses on top of her head, and he sees the woman who eats in bed and falls asleep in her clothes without showering or brushing her teeth.

He likes all of her very much. Perhaps, in time, he could love all of her.

“What will heal me then?” but he’s already raking a hand up the back of her pajama shirt. He’s already grabbing fistfuls of her silken pajamas and kneading the soft flesh of her ass. The light in the bedroom is on low, and everything about her looks softer, and muted. It makes her seem vulnerable, and somehow lovelier.

She kisses him again. Her tongue gently brushes against his. Each pass of their tongues is another question.

Soon enough, he’s worked his hand round, and he’s petting her soft folds through the fine satin of her pajama bottoms. She makes the best little noises, moaning into the kisses, and gasping into his ear.

“Me of course,” she says as she works his cock free from the elastic band of his sleep pants. “Let me make you feel better.” Then, she lavishes attention upon him until he’s aching hard with her tongue and with feather light scratches of her nails against skin, and the soft brush of her fingertips. When Otabek thinks that it cannot get any better, she pulls her own bottoms away, and sinks down on top of him.

Making love to her is simple. She wants. He wants. So, then they act.

* * *

“God, you’re so fucking annoying.” Yuri says fisting his hands into the longer part of Jean’s hair and pulling him downward for a kiss. Jean kisses him hard, and matches his bruising pace. “Fucking combination spins like you’re still a professional. It’s irritating.”

“It seems to be working on you, Kitten,” Jean responds. He threads his fingers into Yuri’s long hair, and grabs tightly by the root. He pulls Yuri’s hair back slightly, and latches onto the soft white skin of his neck. He’ll feel it under his clothes tomorrow when he skates to all of those songs that he planned and choreographed with someone else. He’ll think of him instead.

“Why couldn’t you do that when we were competing? Just not give a fuck, and fucking do it?” Yuri mewls into his touch. He rucks a hand up his shirt, and rakes his nails down his back just to be contrary. Jean loves every moment of it. “Get your fucking clothes off.”

How on Earth could he say no to that? Jean discards his pullover, his shirt, his sweats, and all of it pools into a puddle of various color and textured fabric at his feet.  “You next,” and he’s toying with the hem of Yuri’s shirt.

Yuri slips out of his shirt in an instant and sinks to his knees. Yuri doesn’t take him in right away. He bites sharp little nips into the soft flesh of his thighs. He buries his face into the crook of his thigh. Tests the weight of his balls in his hands. Then, and only then does Yuri take the head of his cock into his mouth. At that moment, every single thought that he had about what he wanted to do with Yuri, wanted to do to Yuri, is gone. Jean takes Yuri’s hair into his fists and holds it in a sloppy ponytail. “You really like doing that, Huh?”

Yuri pulls off of Jean with a pop. There’s a long strand of saliva from Yuri’s tongue to the tip of his cock and it makes him throb. “Showing you how it’s done.”

“Hell yeah,” because there are so many things that he wants to try with Yuri. He’s looked up things, and dreamed of things, and there has to be so many things that Yuri wants to do too.

So Jean does his best to pay attention, not just stare at Yuri’s pretty mouth or the way his throat muscles constrict and relax around his cock. He tries to look past the way that Yuri’s eyelashes are long and fine and how they look when his eyes flutter open and he pulls off of his cock with a sharp _pop!_

“I told you to pay attention, not to narrate,” Yuri orders.

Oh. He does that sometimes. Gets so wrapped up in his head that he starts saying things out loud.

He tries to take note without speaking out. Yuri covers his teeth with his lips. Yuri doesn’t take him all in at once right away. Yuri traces everything with his tongue first. Yuri jerks him while he sucks if he isn’t taking him all in at once.

“Princess.”

Yuri circles the ridge of his cock with his tongue.

“Baby.” What was raw endearment before turns into nervous, high-pitched need.

Yuri touches the head of his cock to the soft flesh of his inner cheek.

“Sweetness.” Jean tousles his hair, but cannot verbalize what’s going on. It’s inevitable at this point. The warm tight sensation in his gut is all consuming.

“Yuri!”

Everything goes blank for a moment as Jean screws his eyes shut and feels like Yuri’s sucking his life out of him through his cock. Then, Yuri’s still on his knees, staring at him and straining in his track pants. He’s got come on his lips, and cum in his mouth, and he’s rolling it around in his mouth, letting it mingle with his spit before swallowing.

He’s so pretty. He’s so perfect. It makes him _want_ again.

* * *

Jean picks him up, and throws him onto the bed, and oh fuck yeah, he loves that kind of caveman bullshit. Jean pulls down his pants and his underwear in one forceful motion. Then he has the fucking audacity to cradle his aching dick in his hands as if this were some kind of lazy morning kind of lovemaking bullshit.

“Can I fuck you?” ah, there it is. The not so subtle reminder that Jean can’t fill in _all_ the gaps with bravado, and muscle, and toothy smiles. He’s never done any of this before, and he’s just as fucking clueless as a kid fumbling around with their dick in their hand.

“You’re not putting that monster cock anywhere near my ass when I have to skate in front of other people,” damn the Sunday matinee. Because he really _could_ go for some sloppy, overeager, virgin killing fucking right now. Except, he’s made that mistake before, and completely fucked up exhibition skates because his ass ached.

“Fuck me then,” Jean whines and then he shoves his hand off of Yuri’s cock and he’s practically humping his leg.

“Fuck,” it switches Yuri’s brain completely over, from trying to get off, to trying to think about Jean. Jean’s got just enough repression fueling his desire right now to be dangerous, which means he has to be the responsible one. Fuck. He hates it when that happens.

Yuri rolls them over so that he’s on top of Jean. He takes the time to run his hands down Jean’s chest. He feels the dip in each tight band of muscle, and takes the time to pinch his nipples. They’re so fucking sensitive, and it gets him going so hard that he’s panting. “Baby,” this and “Kitten,” that sprinkled in with shameless filthy moans that make his dick fucking throb.

“You finger yourself, pretty boy?”

“Of course,” Jean responds. His voice is slurred.

“Why don’t you show me, baby.” The syllables roll off of Yuri’s tongue awkwardly, but he supposes that maybe Jean will like that. Yuri can think of a dozen or more terms of endearment that Jean calls him, and he can’t think of as many instances of him actually using his given name.   

* * *

Jean rummages around in his suitcase, sneaking furtive glances of Yuri sprawled out on the bed with cock in hand. God, his princess was so beautiful. So hot. So his.

“Hurry up,” Yuri barks.

Jean grabs for the lube, and then one of the _other_ items he brought falls out of his suitcase. He can feel the red hot creep of shame blossom across his chest, and his cheeks, and every inch of him feels as if he’s going to be burned alive when Yuri calls from the other side of the room, “what the fuck is that JJ?”

* * *

Yuri was dumb as fuck to believe that Jean was some kind of blushing virginal prince. The lube he expected. What he didn’t expect was a toy that was fucking bigger that Yuri’s dick. Fuck, it was almost as big as Jean’s dick, and he’s huge. “Bring it over here with the lube,” and he doesn’t miss the way Jean’s face turns bright red. Like he’d ever let him get away with packing something like that. “Alright, on your knees,” when Jean finally makes it back to bed. Yuri swats teasingly at the place where ass melts into thigh. Yuri covers his fingers in lube. He circles his hole which is pink and tight, and fuck does he ever have to slow the fuck down and not ram it in right away.

“I thought you wanted me to show you.”

“Right.” Yuri corrects himself, swallows all the fucking drool in his mouth, and pours more lube on Jean’s fingers.

Jean sinks a finger inside, and it’s met with minimal resistance.

Yuri’s so fucking fucked right now. Jean’s only got a finger inside of himself, and he’s fisting his cock and saying all kinds of dumb shit that he’s never said before when he was fucking around. “God that’s so fucking hot,” and “Didn’t know you were a size queen.”

And Jean, being fucking Jean, responds to every stupid thing that he says. “I get you hot, baby you’ll burn for me.” And, “I have other ones. This is my favorite. I’ll show you the rest when we’re home.” And somewhere in the middle of all of this Jean sinks another finger inside. “I’ll use them on you too. I have this plug that would be perfect for you.”

The incoherent filth that Jean spews makes him have to slow down. Makes him have to hold himself firm at the base and think about Moscow in winter time, because fuck. Something about Jean, unapologetically masculine and fingering himself open wide so he can take Yuri’s dick…Yuri who sells makeup, and has a pastel pink colored blog, and almost dies when someone refuses to use a coaster….Well, it does something to him.

It doesn’t help that Jean won’t stop talking. “I’m ready. Like I’m really ready Princess. I _need_ it.”

But Yuri sees the way that his fingers catch at the rim. He still looks so impossibly tight. Yuri can no longer be passive, or he’s going to spill all over Jean’s thigh. As hot as that would be right now, he’s got to stay focused. Show him the best first time he’ll ever have. Yuri sinks a finger inside along with Jean’s digits.

“Can’t wait anymore?” Jean, as awkward as the position is, all fours, propped up with one hand, cranes his neck real hard so that he can look at Yuri. “Now you know how I feel. C’mon.” Jean fucking wriggles his ass against their hands, pressed into his ass.

Jean is scorching hot from the inside, and as much as Yuri wants to pull their fingers out, he can’t bear to tear himself away. Jean’s head is turned to the side, and he’s looking at him with blue intense eyes though which Yuri can see everything. There isn’t a hint of uncertainty hidden in his expression and for that, he is so grateful.  In a fury he’s kissing Jean’s neck, and the barely there over muscle nodules of his spine, and he’s licking that stupid above the ass tattoo.

Then, Jean’s saying more stupid shit, “You gonna take good care of me?” and pulling out his fingers.

Then, Yuri’s saying more stupid shit, “such good care of you, so good for you,” and lining up his dick and pressing in. God, fucking Jean is so good that it’s irritating. He just fucking goes with it, yields to everything just like his too-friendly, too accommodating personality.

Yuri’s fucking done with being conscientious. He grabs up Jean’s hips and fucks into him hard. Skin against skin makes filthy smacking noises as Yuri pounds into him, and these sounds are accented by Jean _groaning_ loud and unapologetically, as if he’d been waiting for Yuri to do this all night.

So Yuri gives it to him. Over and over and over again until he’s seeing stars from fucking into Jean so quickly and so roughly. He watches pretty little bruises start to form on Jean’s hips and his ass wherever he digs his fingers into the flesh. Good. He deserves that after what he did to his neck.

“Come in me,” Jean orders. “Fill me up.”

“I was going to fucking do that anyway,” Yuri growls. He can feel sweat roll down his back, and beat at his forehead. It mingles with the climate controlled air of the hotel room, and it makes him feel hypersensitive. He’s really, really close. “Don’t tell me what to do,” and then before he really understands what’s going on, he’s swatting at Jean’s ass, and Jean somehow makes his moans sound more wanton, more needy, more like it’s absolutely dire that Yuri come into his ass.

“Yuri. Princess. Please,” Jean tightens around him. He’s close too. “I adore you. Yuri.”

Jean makes Yuri do stupid things, and say stupid things. Yuri had planned to pull out and come all over Jean’s ass just to spite him. But, something about those words, dangerously close to a confession, but nothing concrete and tangible enough to get shitty over…Makes Yuri come buried deep into his ass.

* * *

“Baby,” Jean whines. Yuri has pulled out, and pushed him over, but that’s as far as they’ve gotten. Yuri is wearing the relaxed and tension free disposition of someone who is totally and completely satisfied.

He did that. Awesome. 

Except.

Jean is impossibly hard still. He already came once, but at this point he just doesn’t care. Yuri is too good, and he urgently, desperately, completely needs more. “Yuri,” and he’s got his hand wrapped around his cock, but he’s all but dry humping the air above.

“Settle down, settle down,” Yuri doesn’t sound irritated, almost bemused. It’s nice.

Yuri’s digging around through the pillows and the discarded blankets finding first the lube, and then the toy. “You want more cock babe?” He likes it when Yuri calls him that. Makes him feel special.

“Yeah.”

“Can you come from just this?” and he’s nudging it at his hole. It’s thicker and wider than Yuri’s cock, but now that he’s had the real thing, he’s not sure if it will ever be the same again. But, he’ll try. He’ll try for Yuri.

“Of course,” Jean speaks with confidence.

“Good boy,” and the words roll off of Yuri’s tongue thick like syrup when he speaks.

* * *

Yuri’s phone chirps sometime after threatening to beat Jean to death with his giant dildo, and having Jean ride him.

His first instinct is to ignore. So far, they’ve avoided _much_ commentary from Baldass, Fatass, and their skate show goon squad. It has everything to do with getting a late flight in, and then showing up late to practice before the show.

Then, it chirps for a second time. Jean, with his big long arms, rolls over, reaches over his body, and plucks the phone off of the nightstand. He rests it on his lap, and so Yuri has no choice but to reply. “Gee, thanks Jean.”

“Can’t make them think that I’m keeping you from them.”

The texts are relatively benign. “Drinks and late dinner at Baran Rapan?” Followed by, “Jean is invited,” followed by a typical Katsudon stream of consciousness where he’s concerned about making someone else anxious, so he ramps up the anxiety in his own messages to eleven. It makes Yuri’s stomach tighten. “Unless you already have plans.”

“Hey,” he pokes Jean on the stomach. “Let’s get something to eat other than lobby snacks, yeah?”        

“With your friends?”

The group consists mainly of people Victor and Yuuri were close with during their skating years: Georgi, and Giacometti, and Chulanont and people that Victor sees in amateur competitions and sees promise in. Two _friends_ out of a dozen or more people, but sure. “Yeah, if you wanna call them that.” Of course, Jean’s fucking face lights up like it’s Christmas, his birthday, and a gold medal all in one. At the very least, he’s easy to please.

* * *

 

“I liked your show today Yurochka,” grandpa says as Yuri pushes his chair outside to the back porch. It’s getting colder out, but today he’s got lots of blankets over grandpa’s lap. The sun is out, and it still feels more like late summer than it does proper autumn.

“Grandpa,” Yuri’s glad that he’s pushing, so that the old man can’t see his face right now which is surely red as pickled beets. “Have you ever seen a show of mine that you didn’t like?”

“Well no,” he decides finally. “But, I think that I liked that one the best. You should make me some sometime.”

“I brought leftovers, last week remember?” Yuri tugs at his collar. He thought that he was ready for this, but grandpa’s current line of questioning reveals otherwise. “I think you should make it just how you did it on television.”

* * *

“Ah, that’s so sexy Babe,” Jean watches as Yuri balances a bowl of popcorn on his chest, tilts it upward slightly, and then dip his tongue into the bowl catching pieces of popcorn on it and pulling them into his mouth.

Yuri sticks his tongue out at him. It’s covered in popcorn hulls and sticky bits of food. Extra attractive. Jean taps his feet, indicating that he wanted space on the sofa. Yuri complies, and allows him one cushion to his two. Kind of. Yuri rests his feet in Jean’s lap. Jean rests his hands atop the arches of Yuri’s feet. He rests his bowl of ice cream _on top of_ Yuri’s ankles, until Yuri kicks at him playfully, “that’s cold.”

“Turn it on!” Jean balances the ice cream in one hand, and slaps Yuri’s ankle with the other.

Yuri fiddles with the DVR remote. He selects today’s show from the menu. Then, fast-forwards through the morning’s headlines, the celebrity interview, and the national weather.         

“Too far!” Jean cries when Yuri’s face is in frame.

“Fuck fuck fuck.” Yuri fiddles with the remote a little more. Begrudgingly he stops at the end of the national weather spot. His first week on air, Yuri brought in homemade croissants to like look normal and friendly and shit.

Before they were introduced, he overheard the anchor commenting that they were a bit dry. Yeah fucking right. In his dreams.

Then, the anchor tosses off to Yuri.

“Look, there we are!” Jean points to the screen. Sure enough, Yuri’s standing in his set kitchen with his usual fare. Copper pans, and the crappy silicone baking set that he has to use because it’s in his contract, and then, next to him a special guest. He’s had only a handful other special guest on the show. Yuuri came on during his debut week to make Katsudon piroshky with him. Victor came on once to do a segment on vodka tasting and infusion.

His third guest is a certain grinning and wide eyed Canadian who happens to look unbelievably good in the off-white on-set aprons. Yuri has to admit that even though his makeup artist gave him the whore makeup treatment _again_ : too much rouge, really questionable blue eyeshadow….They look pretty good standing next to each other on screen.

Then, Yuri opens his mouth, and he remembers why he hasn’t watched a show since his debut on-air. “Good morning! Today, I have special guest, Jean-Jaques Leroy with me. Why don’t you tell everyone at home what we’re making?”

Yuri feels disgusted with himself. His tone sounds so fake. His smile seems so forced and unnatural. He can’t tell if he’s always like this, or if it seems forced because he was nervous about Jean, or it just _is_ fucking forced and having Jean next to him, earnest and genuine makes him look awful in comparison.  

“Today, we’re making Mama Leroy’s famous maple bacon butter tart, but with you Yuri I know there’s always a twist.” Jean’s a fucking natural. He’s gonna lose his job. His Russian has gotten so much better in the brief time that he’s been here.

“Yeah, so why don’t you open up that pan there, and you’ll see that we have some braised pork belly.”

On screen, Yuri’s about to walk through the ingredient list for the glaze, so Yuri opts to talk over it. “So, hair and makeup hates me, and now I have proof. You look human. I don’t.”

“You look fine Princess,” Jean assures.

“I don’t know. I’m informally banned from wearing prints and-“

“Babe,” Jean whines and points to the screen. “Can I watch us?”

“Whatever.” Yuri huffs. He opens his phone, and searches some of the more popular hashtags for the morning show. There’s one tweet in particular that appears all over his feed. It’s a screenshot of him next to Jean. He’s got Jean mixing some shit up in a big pale pink mixing bowl. It’s hash tagged, #newsexyboyfriendcostar. It’s been retweeted 300 times and liked a few hundred more.

“What are you doing?” Jean asks. Yuri rolls his eyes. He always does this whenever his attention is diverted, even when Jean asks to be left alone. Yuri sits up and shoves his phone into Jean’s face.

Jean takes Yuri’s phone into his hand and reads the screen. “Stuff like this doesn’t bother you?”

“If it bothered me? Would I even have even asked you to come on?”

“I guess not.” Jean scrolls for a bit, and then Yuri can see his finger tapping down the screen.

“Hey, what are you doing?”

“Nothing.”

Yuri snatches for his phone, but Jean holds it high out of his reach. “Just liking all of these for you. That’s all.”

                                                                                                                                                                                                                           


	5. Chapter 5

_I still want you by my side_

_just to help me dry the tears that I've cried_

_cause I'm sure gonna give you a try_

_and if you want, I'll try to love again_

Yuri took an afternoon to huff, and puff, and turn red as fuck in order to move the recliner into bedroom. This was stupid, and why did he have a strong muscle boyfriend if he wasn’t going to make him move shit? Yet, he persisted, because he had the damn thing stuck in the doorway, and it was going in. When all was said and done, and he was sweaty and humiliated. However, was simultaneously the best idea he’d ever had. It meant he could sit, and zone out, and check emails in the _utmost_ comfort while Gramps snoozed. He didn’t have to fidget in one of the smaller chairs, or sit in the other room and then _worry_. He did that enough when he returned home at night, and spent plenty of time thinking that he really just needed to move back into his childhood room.

As it stands, Grandpa is snoring, and he’s kicked back in the chair. He’s got his tablet propped up against his chest, and he’s doing some serious damage on a package of peach rings. He opens his email and scrolls past several chains of emails. Subject line: **JJ Style in Omsk?** , because of course that asshole Victor was already asking about future shows, followed by subject line: **Re: JJ Style in Omsk? Fuck Off.**

Somewhere in the middle of it all there is an Outlook invite. Yuri double clicks on it and opens up his calendar.

**Subject:** Making love with my boyfriend.

**Location** : 32A & 38A: bed, chair, sofa, kitchen, balcony.

**Duration:** Friday, 5:00PM- Monday, 4:30 AM.

Fucking really? Yuri hovers over the “accept” button, but does not click. It has been since Sochi. They melt back into their schedules immediately, and don’t have time for much more other than stolen kisses over takeout, or sloppy hand jobs with the television on. Literally anything else could be nice.

Yuri declines the event and makes sure to send the notification along with it. Then, he opens up a new event invite.

**Subject:** Fucking the neighbor

**Location:** 32A and 38A: bed, sofa, carpet, wall, bathtub

**Duration** : Friday, 7:00 PM- Sunday, 5:00 PM

Because he needs some time to clean shit up, and also needs a good night’s sleep for Monday.

Yuri goes about fiddling with emails, loading his TweetDeck with queued tweets, and looking at recipes online. He also goes about emailing Victor that whether it's _fucking_ or _making love_ or whatever, Omsk is probably, definitely, out.

He gets a banner notification from his email, only to find that Jean has had the audacity to decline. Another invite.

**Subject:** Making love/fucking (various)

**Location:** 32A and 38A: Every surface physically possible

**Duration** : Friday, 7:00 PM- Sunday, 5:00 PM

Yuri begrudgingly accepts the invite.

* * *

“It’s been few years since I’ve been to Almaty,” she says.

“Were you here for something important?” He teases. Their last Olympics were here in this city. It is arguably one of his worst memories within the city. He hadn’t won gold _consistently_ throughout his career, Yuri and Jean saw to that.   But, he had wanted nothing more than to win gold in his home city. As such, it was the _only_ time he’d ever felt shame in the course of his career.

“I didn’t get to see anything outside of Olympic Village,” she says with the kind of dangerous little smirk that he’s grown to revel in. It’s quiet, and it’s unassuming, and it always leads to something much more than he could ever anticipate.

“I could fix that,” he says. He can feel his mouth turn into a grin in silence response. Otabek throws a leg over the bike.

He’s about to throw his weight onto the kick start when she interrupts, “Baby,” and gives him _the look_. It’s the particular look that he cannot say no to: big brown eyes interrupted by long lashes, perfect pouty red lips. “I want to drive.”

“You can’t drive unless you start,” he says teasing her relentlessly. She has on pumps like she _always_ does when others have the slightest chance of seeing her. She’s also wearing a tight skirt that is going to look _so_ good on the back of his bike.

So needless to say, he wasn’t expecting her to push him out of the way. She throws one leg over the bike, and while Otabek is craning his neck to get a better look she’s throwing all hundred and twenty pounds of her frame into the bike. The engine turns over, but he has to scramble to keep it upright.

In an instant, the bike his humming underneath of her. Her skirt is riding up high. So, he climbs onto the back of the bike and wraps his arms around her. “Where are we going Dr. Yang?”

She turns back to him, and he can barely hear her dry chuckle over the roar of the engine. “I don’t even know how to get out of the parking lot. Let’s see.”

* * *

His baby opens the door and looks at him with his mouth parted slightly like he doesn’t know what to do with him. Yuri squints at him, and then finally speaks. “Our date doesn’t start until 7:00.”

“I wanted to see you Babe!” Jean just cannot help himself. He gets all into Yuri’s space, wraps his arms around him, and grabs his ass.

For a sweet, split second, Yuri melts into his touch. Then, as quickly as it began, Yuri’s body goes rigid, and he’s got an arm wedged between them. His long hand splays out across his chest, and damn does he love the way Yuri’s fresh manicure and clear coat looks across his charcoal sweater.

“Jean, check your phone. Tell me what time it is,” Yuri’s tone is dry and unamused.

He knows how to remedy this. Jean doesn’t let go. He simply pulls Yuri n closer so that he can loop his arms around his back so he can steal a glance at his watch. The little halogen numbers read, “five thirty-two, Babe.”

“I’m not ready yet.” Yuri finally pulls him off and gestures to himself. He’s got his hair pulled up in a barrette, which isn’t his usual style. A few stray strands hang down around his face. Other than that, Jean can see no difference between now and what Yuri would look like in ninety minutes’ time. He can see tight fitting jeans and a simple white blouse underneath a mint colored apron which is knotted at Yuri’s waist. He can see the faint whisper of makeup on Yuri’s face, the place at his temples where contour melts into foundation melts into the wispy fine hairs at his hairline. He’s really beautiful.

“Let me help.” Jean begs. “You can’t say I’m no good in the kitchen anymore. I didn’t ruin your segment.” 

“No way asshole. I’m trying to do something nice for you.”

“You don’t even need someone to do your mise en place?”

Yuri tucks a stray strand of hair behind his ear while he mulls it over, “couldn’t you make yourself useful in other ways? Go lube your ass or something?” Yuri unblocks the doorway and lets him in. He turns on his heel in sock feet and stomps across the floor.

 It takes Jean three long steps to catch up. His hands meet denim with a sharp _smack_ as he spanks Yuri, but not nearly as hard as he deserves. “I thought it was my turn tonight, Princess?”

“Yeah, sure,” Yuri huffs. “Whatever.”

“It already smells really good in here babe.”

“I made some bread.” Yuri supplies. “Before I was so rudely interrupted.”

“Hey,” he’s going to get yelled at again for crowding Yuri’s space, but he just can’t help himself. He gets Yuri to himself for an entire weekend, and it just doesn’t feel real. “I need some sugar,” and he’s so close to just burying his face in the crook of Yuri’s neck he can feel the heat from his skin. He hooks a finger into his belt loop, and presses their bodies against each other.

Yuri doesn’t say anything. He simply cranes his neck so that they can kiss without moving, Yuri slotted up against him from behind. Their mouths barely push together, then Yuri’s doing something amazing. He’s breathing into the kiss, and making Jean’s knees weak.

Then, somehow, he manages to collect himself. He kisses back, deepens the kiss and traces the roof of Yuri’s mouth in a way that makes him shiver against his broad chest. Wow.

“If you keep doing that, I’ll never finish dinner,” Yuri says when they part. “This is why I didn’t want you to come over early.”

* * *

 

“I thought it was my turn tonight, Princess?”

“Yeah, sure,” Yuri huffs. “Whatever.” Like he didn’t stand in the shower until the water ran cold making sure that his ass was _abso-fucking-lutely_ squeaky clean.

Jean grabs Yuri’s phone, which is connected to Bluetooth speakers, and changes the music to shitty top 40. Yuri _may_ find himself singing along softly with the lyrics, _but_ only when his back is turned, and Jean’s already belting out the lyrics so loudly that he’s practically yelling.

Jean makes them a really nice radicchio salad with vinaigrette. Yuri compliments him on it, even though Jean spent thirty minutes reading over the recipe card over and over again. It was kind of cute how he silently mouthed the words as he read.

Jean lets out an undignified shriek when he tops both of their steaks with an obscene amount of compound butter. Yuri tells him that he’s seen his secret stash of North American candy in his fridge, and to shove it.

Jean botches uncorking the wine, and so little flecks of the stuff gets into their glasses of 80 Euro a bottle Shiraz.  Yuri doesn’t say a goddamn word, because honestly, who gives a fuck? Yuri feels human arguably for the first time in over a year. He can laugh when he’s with Jean, and he can tease Jean relentlessly, and he can be stressed out about work and grandpa, and he can be scared about how his life has changed in every conceivable way, and he can do it all at the same time without feeling like he _has_ to be one or two of those things, fragmented and disjointed.

Jean is drying his Wedgewood plates at the counter with the kind of threadbare tea towel that shouldn’t be used on that kind of dish. While he works, he opens his goddamn mouth. He’s not even looking at him. He’s drying the dish like it’s the most interesting thing in the world. His eyes are half lidded, and he’s stopped humming along to the music. That’s why Yuri looks up at him to begin with. Then, it just tumbles out of his mouth like all the things that he says without thinking about the consequences but means earnestly nonetheless, “love you Babe.”

Yuri drops the dishes under the water with a dull thud, “really?”

“Yeah,” he stacks the dish in the drying rack and pecks him on the cheek.  

* * *

 

“What is it?”

“Nothing,” Isabella’s fingers play lightly around the stem of her champagne flute.  Her gaze is cast downward, but her smile is bold, beaming, and cannot be contained simply because she wishes to avert her eyes.

“It’s never nothing,” Otabek notes. “When you look at me like that. That’s the look you give when I’m wrong, and you’re right, and you have something very clever to say.”

“Ah well,” she drains her champagne flute, and places it on the empty tray of a passing waiter. She fixes his lapels, and smooths his tie. Then, and only then does she lock her eyes with his. “I was just thinking about how I don’t know anyone here, except for you. I don’t speak any Russian or Kazakh for that matter. I should be miserable.”

“Should be,” Otabek notes dryly. Her smile is infectious, and soon enough his expression matches her own.

“But I’m not. I’m really happy.”

“Why is that?” He circles her thin waist with his hands. The contact is bold outside of the dancefloor, but he does not care. She’s his, and he’s going to enjoy her body freely.

“I think it’s because,” she leans in close to him and whispers in his ear, interrupting herself with a giggle, “I love you.”

* * *

 

 “Oh, my god,” Yuri clutches at the sheets and stifles moans with his hands. Yuri always has been, and probably always will be, all about image. He isn’t so much tightly controlled, as he is in a constant state of flux, desperately trying to hold onto some kind of equilibrium. Equilibrium, of course, being _cool_. Jean supposes that moaning isn’t cool. “Fuck. I wanna take back like half, the mean things I’ve ever said to you.”

Jean digs his thumbs into the muscles of Yuri’s shoulders again, only to drag his thumbs down his spine. He’s wanted this for a long time, and now he’s finally got it, Yuri Plisetsky, man that he loves, naked in his bed.

It’s a far cry from watching the Bachelorette.

“Feel good Princess?” Jean pauses for a moment to dabble more massage oil onto Yuri’s skin. Then, he slides his hands up Yuri’s spine in the opposite direction, and with it he can feel the tension in Yuri’s body lessen after each and every pass.

Yuri might’ve started out the night as the star, medium rare steaks, and expensive wine, and kisses that made his knees knock, but Jean’s bound and determined to end the night as showrunner. He’s done a _pretty_ good job of things if he does say so himself. He found some candles hidden away in the back cupboard of Yuri’s bathroom. He spread fluffy white towels down on Yuri’s bed, because he _knows_ that his Versace sheets are very near and very dear to him. He dimmed the lights, and then he unbuttoned Yuri’s blouse with agonizing slowness, hung it up with a smile. Then, he looped a finger in Yuri’s waistband, peeled his pants away, and after a few deep kisses asked him, “Princess, why don’t you get in bed?”

In the present, Yuri’s glassy eyed, pliant demeanor is rapidly wearing off. “No Jean, I’m just saying all this because it feels bad.”

Jean knows just how to make him be good for him again. He alternates between slow circles, and long drawn out lines upward, and sure enough Yuri’s moaning for him again in no time.

Jean shifts, so that he’s straddling Yuri with the bulk of his weight on his knees. Still, he can position himself _just_ so that he’s barely pressed against Yuri. His cock feels heavy as he rests it against Yuri’s skin. Having Yuri in his bed like this, having Yuri make noises like this, seeing so much of Yuri’s skin again pressed against him, well it has an effect on him. He wants Yuri to know. His cock looks incredible resting against the crack of his ass, and it would be so easy for Jean to lose control and rush things. It would be so easy to get more lube and push into Yuri.

Of course, Yuri rocks his hips as much as he can with Jean straddling him. ”You could just fuck me. I stretched myself out a bit in the shower.”   

“Babe,” Jean leans in, covering the expanse of Yuri’s body with his own.  “You couldn’t wait for me?” He grinds into Yuri, and nibbles at his ear starting at the lobe, and up the shell, and back again.  “Not just yet.” Then, he moves down Yuri’s body once again. He rubs the muscles of his thighs, and his tight calves, all the way down to his feet.

Jean presses into the sole with his thumbs, and Yuri growls, “You’re just fucking with me now Leroy.”

“Maybe so.” Only after Yuri’s legs are coated in massage oil and glistening does he worm in between Yuri’s legs. They part easily for him. Jean presses his thumb against Yuri’s perineum and applies slow sweet pressure to the soft skin there.  

Yuri yelps in response.

“I thought you wanted?”

“Shut up,” and Yuri writhes about on the bed. “Shut up and give it to me.”  Then, He’s rolling over, and moving to kiss him, and-

Jean grabs him by the shoulder, and pushes him back down onto the bed, so that he’s awkwardly pinned on his side. He knows that Yuri could so easily wrestle control from him right now and get his way instantly. He cannot let that happen. “Not a chance Princess.” He taps on his hip, “roll over Baby.”

“What if I don’t,” Yuri keeps writhing around, bunching all of the towels and sliding against his own bare skin.  Yuri pushes himself around so that they’re facing, and then they’re kissing, and then Yuri’s rubbing his cock against his thigh.

In an instant, Yuri has his legs wrapped around him, and then he’s awkwardly pushing him over and getting on top. Covered in oil and sliding everywhere, Jean has to hold on tightly for fear that Yuri will slide off the bed.

Jean decides that the best course of action is to beat Yuri at his own game. He kisses Yuri back with every ounce of fire and aggression that Yuri puts into it. He lets Yuri suck on his neck, his collarbones, and his earlobes. In the meantime, he works a single oil coated digit into Yuri’s hole.

Not as planned, but he’ll reroute and put the whole thing back on track in an instant.

“Fuck yeah, fucking finally,” Yuri breathes hotly into his ear. “Enough of that princess bullshit.”

Which of course, only sets Jean off. Patience be dammed. He’s flipping them over again, and turning Yuri around, and pressing his hips into the bed so hard that his arms hurt but, “you are my Princess.” Jean knows that he has to act fast. He moves one hand from Yuri’s hips, and gives him one, sharp swat across the ass before spreading his cheeks wide. He licks a single stripe from the soft skin of Yuri’s sack, across his hole, all the way to his tailbone. “So act like it.”

And just like that, he’s turned the tables again, “oh my fuck. JJ.” And Yuri’s wriggling his ass at him, and trying to get onto his knees and push himself closer to Jean’s mouth.

Jean, on the other hand, simply will not be rushed. He’s wanted this for awhile now. It’s going to go exactly the way that he wants.

He kisses Yuri’s tailbone, and each cheek, and nips the flesh of his ass, and his thighs, which wasn’t his best idea, he still tastes like oil after all. Then, he turns his attention back on Yuri’s hole. He traces it with his mouth and alternates pressure.

Jean pulls off of him with an obscene slurping sound, “I mean if you don’t like it, I can’ stop.”

“JJ you prick! Don’t you fucking stop until I tell you.”

“Of course baby,” and then he dives back in. He presses his tongue inside, and god does his baby taste so sweet. He grazes his tongue against his hole, and Yuri makes the very best sound, raw and vulnerable and only for him.

Yuri told him not to stop, but Jean can’t help himself. He works a single digit back inside, and tries to fit his tongue in too until Yuri’s kicking and writhing, and “ah-fuck Jean, I need more,” and he feels the same way, so who is he to deny Yuri anything at all?

Jean pulls back, gives Yuri one more final kiss on the tail bone, and then flips him over.  

Yuri looks completely fucked out, and they haven’t even started yet. His eyes are blown wide, and half lidded. His body is completely melted into the bed, and his hair is spread out around his head like a golden halo. He’s got one arm thrown up by his head, tangled into his hair, and Yuri says it all with his body alone.

Jean takes a split second to pull his coat his fingers with lube, and it feels like coming up for air because he’s so hard, and he’s so into Yuri.

Yuri watches him with rapt fascination. “You gonna fuck me up?”

“In a minute,” and then Jean shakes the raw lust from his brain and goes back to the task at hand. He presses a finger into Yuri. He’s so tight, and so warm, and so hot.

“Another, I’m ready for another,” and Yuri, with their positions flipped, balls his hands into his hair and pulls, _hard_.

Jean complies, by tracing Yuri’s rim with his middle finger and scissoring it inside along his index finger. He ups the ante for Yuri simultaneously. He takes the head of Yuri’s cock into his mouth and laps at the tip, barely grazing it with his tongue and letting it touch the side of his cheek.

Then, Jean crooks his fingers and rubs _hard._

“Fuck!” and he can feel Yuri’s chest thunder beneath him as his body convulses.

He pulls off of Yuri’s cock. “Did I find your sweet spot?

  
 Yuri relinquishes a fist full of hair to grab himself by the base and shove his cock back into Jean’s mouth, which he accepts greedily.  He takes as much of it into his mouth as he can, trying to relax his throat the way that Yuri does.

He steals a lop sided glance at Yuri, and swears that he can see his eyes roll to the back of his head. He looks _so_ good like this, and the best part is he can see it again, and again, and again.

* * *

 

“Jean,” Yuri tugs on his hair, and slaps at his shoulder. He isn’t fucking around this time, not being bitchy for the sake of being bitchy. “Jean, I’m-fuck-serious.” Because he can already feel the low, rolling thunder in his belly that means that he’s going to come soon, and he doesn’t want to stop now.

Not when Jean’s dick is so hard, and so red, and so needy just from getting him ready. No fucking way.

“I’m gonna come if you don’t-come on,” and then _finally_ when Yuri’s knuckles are white, and he’s seeing stars, and every ounce of self-control that he has is spent, Jean pulls off of his cock. Then, he pulls out his fingers, and kisses him as he withdrawals each and every one.

“Hey,” he’s already so fucked out and disoriented, he lets Jean fucking manhandle him. Jean moves him as he sees fit, and folds his body however he’d like. He’s got his legs pressed to his chest, and then he’s pressing their sweat slicked foreheads together. He presses them even closer together somehow with a sloppy kiss, which forces Yuri’s legs further back, so that knees are flush with his ears, and he’s all folded up and ass exposed.  “Who loves you?” And he can feel the nudge of Jean’s cock catching at his rim.

It’s the kind of line that should make him want to wretch. Instead, Jean pushes in slowly, and he feels drunk at the feeling of being breached. He has no choice but to slur back in a sloppy, jumble of far, far too many syllables, “yo-ou.”

And Jean just fucking smiles at him as he pushes his giant fucking cock inside. Like just the fact that Yuri can say that much, is enough. There’s no pressure to say it back. Just the delicious pressure and drag of Jean’s cock. Fuck.

Yuri fucking hates this position. He can’t grab at Jean, and he can’t rake his nails down his back, and he can’t even crane his neck properly to kiss him. Has to wait to be kissed.

So Yuri wriggles around a bit, against the towels, and the oil, and the sweat, and good fucking god they’re filthy. He wraps his legs around Jean instead of being all folded in half and useless.

Jean _clearly_ likes the pillow princess bullshit. He doesn’t.

“Readin’ my mind Princess.” He loops his arms underneath Yuri’s waist, and hoists him up higher, simultaneously pushing him down on his cock. It was as if he didn’t want him to forget for a fucking second that he was huge.

Jean’s able to keep up the gentleman prince bullshit for all of about three thrusts. They’re slow, almost all the way out and then slide back in movements. Then, he slams into Yuri. Yuri rakes his nails down his back, and it’s like something snaps in Jean, finally.

Jean fucks into Yuri relentlessly, and doesn’t give him a second to catch up with the multiple kinds of havoc that he wreaks on his body. He bathes him in sloppy, open mouthed kisses. He kneads the soft flesh of his ass and threatens, “you’ll feel me tomorrow princess. Feel how much I love you.” He just keeps pushing in, and in, and in, until he’s fully seated inside Yuri, pulls out, and slams back in beginning the entire relentless process renew.

Yuri fucking loves every second of it.

It’s unfucking fair how Jean gets it. Jean can just give him what he wants, just like that. He can pull him tight, play him like a finely tuned instrument, and leave him broken and begging for more. It’s not fair.

“JJ,” two letters, two syllables, hot on his tongue like a prayer. All Yuri can do is dig his nails into his skin, grit his teeth, and chase the feeling in his stomach that makes his whole body tremble.

“You wanna come baby?”

“Yeah,” Yuri all but fucking sobs. Everything aches. His jaw hurts from clenching it so tight, and his legs throb from being folded in half, and his ass stings from being stretched so tight. He wants this, he wants this so badly.

Jean pushes him back onto the mattress, folds his legs up towards his chest again, and takes his cock into his hand. “Come for me, Yuri. Please come for me,” and in these words, Yuri can hear something torn free and desperate. He wants to come so fucking badly, but he’s holding out for Yuri’s sake.

“Yuri please,” and he can feel his cock twitch deep inside, and god it’s so hot. How he’s Jean’s first, and Jean fucking loves him, and goddamn.

He can feel his own cock twitch in Jean’s hand, and then Jean’s still trying to fuck him and stroke him through it all, and god, he’s fucking lucky. He’s going to train him up so good, and make him be so good.

Yuri almost says it somewhere between Jean pulling out, and licking Yuri’s come off of his hand. He almost says it, and he definitely means the words that he almost says, but doesn’t. It’d be easy. Let them tumble out, and leave them hang there openly in the heat of passion. Let him clarify, tomorrow, or the next day, or the day after. Instant gratification with minimal risk.

Yuri almost says it, but he doesn’t.

* * *

 

Jean has the nerve to fall asleep while he’s in the shower. He’s naked, and he’s got a semi, and he just looks like he’s begging to be woken up with a blow job.

Yuri takes a moment to simply watch him for a moment in his sleep. His mouth is parted slightly. His chest rises and falls softly. Without a blanket on in the drafty apartment, his skin is dappled with gooseflesh, which Yuri would very much so like to kiss smooth.  

Yuri cuddles up next to him, takes his half hard cock in one hand, and cups his chin with the other. He whispers, into his ear, “ _I love you,”_ but does so in Russian. If Jean was going to hear it this soon, he was going to have to translate, and do it in a sleepy post sex stupor at that.

“Yuri,” his voice is soft, and gentle, and so full of wonder.

* * *

 

“Oh my God,” Yuri puts down his end of the sofa, and Jean does the same. Yuri rolls onto it, even though they’re out in the middle of the hallway. Princess and Chainsaw are in the doorway meowing their guts out like it’s the end of the world. “I _still_ have more furniture than you. Why the fuck are we moving all my shit out?”

“You’re the one that wanted to move in with me babe.” Jean walks around the sofa and sits directly on top of Yuri who is spread out across the whole thing.

“I’m not moving in with you.” Yuri slaps at his back trying to get him to move. “I’m _technically_ moving in with gramps. My cats are moving in with you, alongside my stuff, and then I’m staying with you when I’m not busy.”

“Right, right.” Jean doesn’t move, he just drapes his long bulky frame over Yuri and tries to steal a kiss. Yuri puts a hand over his mouth so that all Jean can do is kiss the palm of his hand.

“Why don’t you move in with my cats?”

“We’d still have to move a couch. I’m not getting rid of that thing since you made me buy it.”

* * *

 

“Hey, your sister called. You alive?” Yuri tries not to sound overly abrasive, nor overly concerned as he talks into the receiver.

“Yes.” Otabek responds. “Must’ve been an accident.”

“Right,” and there’s a pause on the line for a moment, before almost two decades worth of friendship, and more kicks in. “You doing okay?” Because he knows how Otabek will feel faint at the sight of a paper cut. He knows how Otabek put all of it off for as long as he could and then some. He can remember the days where Otabek was too stiff to get out of bed. All of it had to have been extremely difficult for him.

“Yes.” Otabek repeats simply.

Yuri isn’t exactly sure what he expected in response.

“Really good.” Yuri can hear the hint of a smile in his voice. “You?”

“Same,” and he can feel a hot blush creep over his face as he think about just how true it is. “Really, really good.”

* * *

 


End file.
